


A Queen In Every Right

by mstoker713



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Not Canon Compliant, just making it the fuck up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2018-10-14 08:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10532799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstoker713/pseuds/mstoker713
Summary: Daenerys takes the throne and Sansa takes the North. The Wall falls and Margaery is given a choice. Join Sansa or perish. But it's been a long time since Margaery and Sansa have seen each other, what happens if Margaery accepts?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So no sansaery interaction right away, gotta set stuff up first.

**Prologue**

_Sansa Stark played the game far better than any of us._ Is the first thought, that goes through Margaery’s head if anyone were to ask. No one would, of course. But Margaery was not willing to admit, not even to herself, that her first thought was not a thought, but a feeling. A rush of feelings. Relief, mixed with longing, hurt, and just the slightest bit of pride.

Relief that Sansa was safe. Longing to be at her side, to be simply have the attention and affection of the girl who unknowingly stole her heart. Hurt, that Sansa would allow her to find out this way. Hurt that Sansa would send no word that she was safe, or of what she was planning. Hurt that she had not yet been asked to see her. (No matter how foolish these feelings were, no matter how impractical of their situation.) Finally, proud. Proud of Sansa for surviving, for changing the game, for winning.

She used to enjoy Sansa being the dreamer, of listening to her wolf speak of them being together, running away. And when Sansa left without her, she thought that is was best. The Game of Thrones was not good for keeping the Starks alive. And she would prefer Sansa alive to dead.

When Sansa ran away, and Baelish took control of The Vale, she prayed. She prayed every day to the gods. In front of the seven, never mentioning to anyone that she prayed for the traitor’s daughter. But in the night, after Tommen was asleep, and she would pray quietly to the Old Gods. She may not have held the belief in them, but Sansa had said they watched over her family for generations. And Margaery prayed that they still would.

She did not expect to ever hear of a positive fate of Sansa Stark.

She expected to hear of her demise, of her capture, torture, her dead body. She expected to hear of Arya or perhaps even Jon Snow, whom Sansa rarely mentioned, leading a war over the death of their family, to hear Sansa’s name among a list of those they had lost. She expected to hear of the loss of her love, and never be able to mourn.

Instead, she sits across from Samwell Tarly.

_Maester Samwell Tarly_ , she corrects herself. Maester Tarly is composed for sitting across from someone as intimidating as she is, and the dangerous nature of the letter he brought.

“Lord Commander Snow and her Majesty Sansa will be expecting an answer -your answer, Your Highness.” The Maester informs Margaery warily.

Margaery blinks, she had considered this, one of the Starks rebuilding Winterfell, breaking the seven kingdoms again. But she had not imagined that Daenerys Targaryen would support them.

Or offer her a pardon. She had bedded two Lannister’s, and the Tyrell’s had supported the Renly and then Lannister’s in The War of Five Kings. To be offered a pardon, for her and her family was gracious but Margaery was not taken. She knew with Daenerys as Queen that she would never be. But the Iron Throne was no more, burned in dragon fire and the Wall had fallen. Winter was here, and the Starks could survive winter.

“Am I to trust that my family would maintain their positions here?” It was a loaded question, as Maester Tarly was sworn to the North. It wouldn’t be fitting for him to make promises on behalf of another kingdom.

“I have assurances that the Tyrells will keep possession of their lands and titles. However, the Knight of the Flowers will follow you to the North should you accept. He will be sworn in service to Queen Sansa,” the Maester answered.

“Would he fight on the front?” Her voice was steady. She would not betray her fear for Loras’ life. He had been smart turning in Tommen and Cersei in exchange for their lives. She would not throw his away.

“That will of course be up to the Queen. But I-” Tarly was cut off by a voice from the shadows.

“He will serve in the Queens-Guard. Unless the front reaches Winterfell, he will not be there.” A small girl, -no-- woman stood behind Tarly. Her clothes were plain, perfect for being unnoticed, but of very fine quality, befitting of royal.

_Shadow Wolf_.

 It was a title from the battle for King’s Landing. As the Dothraki had stormed the Red Keep, Loras had taken Cersei, Tommen, and herself the Sept to hide, to wait for the battle to be over. Except what was waiting for them was a surprise. The Dragon Queen herself, Daenerys Targaryen. Her company was even more surprising, Brienne of Tarth and Jamie Lannister wearing Stark colors. Tyrion Lannister and Varys next to one of the dragons. And the Dothraki. Loras had taken Cersei by the arm, never once looking at her and deposited her in front of Daenerys.

Margaery knew when she had lost. It was the moment that Loras had dropped to his knees in front of the Targaryen and swore his Kingsguard vows to her.  And then Tommen, young, sweet, foolish Tommen had followed Loras. Had taken his crown and dropped it at her feet. That had been Cersei’s breaking point. Cersei had _lunged_ , not for Daenerys or Loras, but for Tommen. Choking him, crushing him, screaming at him. Arya Stark had stepped from the shadows and Cersei Lannister fell, her crimson robes staining even darker with scarlet. The Kinglsayer had rushed to Tommen but it was far too late. His cries had echoed, calling Tommen’s name, his _son’s_ name. Tyrion’s face had twisted, in pity, in disgust, in sorrow.

After that it was simple. With Cersei and Tommen dead, Margaery was the Queen by default. But staring at those dragons, with their teeth and their breath raising the temperature of the Sept; she knew she would not remain Queen.

“Do we have a deal, Lady Tyrell? Or should I prepare my sister for mourning?” Arya drew Margaery out of her reverie. Her eyes were sharp, appraising. _What had she done, to survive with the Stark name?_

Margaery thought of Loras, of his pleading eyes. She thought of the hardness of the stone on her knees as she knelt in front of Daenerys. She thought of Sansa’s smile, her laughter, her sweet girl.

“Yes,” she breathed out.

In his chair, Maester Tarly shifted, smiling at her. He wrote something on parchment and handed it to Arya who nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

“We will be leaving tomorrow. You may return to your rooms to pack what you need. However, clothes will be provided for you in Winterfell,” Maester Tarly informed her as he rose from his chair.

“Will it just be my brother accompanying us?” Margaery inquired as she brushed imaginary dirt from her dress.

“No, Brienne of Tarth and Ser Jamie will be accompanying us.” Margaery was surprised at that. With the confession of Cersei and Jamie’s affair, Margaery had assumed it would be the end of the Kingslayer. “Ser Jaime?” She inquired, willing to admit to confusion.

“Brienne is sworn to serve Queen Sansa and Ser Jamie is banished from King’s Landing. He has chosen to follow her.” Maester Tarly held the door for her as they left. He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes and facing the sun. He looked happy. Maester Tarly hummed and then turned to her. “It is easy to forget the feeling of the sun. It’s more than just bright. It’s warm and it envelops you, makes you feel alive.”

She remembers that the Maester had been part of the Night’s Watch, had fought past the Wall. She wonders for a moment if he had been there when the Wall fell. If he had seen White Walkers or fought any wildlings.

“Margaery!” Loras calls out to her from across the courtyard. Standing next to him was Daenerys with several Dothraki behind her. Making her way over, she offered a curtsy to the Queen, remembering her place. Daenerys watched her, lilac eyes focused, judging her worth. She steeled herself against the scrutiny. The Queen nodded and spoke.

“Lady Margaery, walk with me.”

Margaery had heard many rulers talk, many kings and lords. Those who spoke with rage, with cunning words and hidden threats. The Dragon Queen spoke with authority that she had not encountered. The sureness, the mask she often displayed, was mirrored in Daenerys. Rather, she felt that she mirrored it. Like she was an imitation, a pretender, while Daenerys was the real thing. Margaery smiled, “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Is it strange to call me that after having been Queen?” Daenerys asked her as they began walking.

Margaery laughed, “No, Cersei made sure that I was aware that she believed herself to be in charge.”

“Believed herself? You deny that she was?”

“It was the War of Five Kings, Your Grace. But there have always been other powers behind the Throne. Some have formal titles; you’ve made Tyrion your Queen’s Hand and Varys is your Spymaster. Then of course there is the small council, your advisors, anyone who has your ear. They will try to influence you, to force your hand. Moving pieces and people to try and make you react how they want. The Iron Throne may be destroyed but the Game of Thrones lives on.” Daenerys stopped walking, and Margaery followed her lead.

“Do you know what the Dothraki call me?” Margaery shook her head no. “Khaleesi. It means I am not just a Queen. I was Khaleesi before I was Queen. While my birthright is to be Queen, while it is what I have fought for, I will remain Khaleesi. It was how I learned to rule, listening not to my advisors but to the people I sought to rule. A mother to my dragons and a Khaleesi to the rest.” Her eyes settled on Margaery, a fierceness burning in them. “I do not rule to play the Game of Thrones, I rule for my people. How many suffered in the War of Five Kings? Not just those lost fighting, but the farmers, the families, those raided and those broken? How many were destroyed by the Mad King? The Iron Throne was a reminder that those who have power should not be comfortable with it. Yet those who sought it out never seemed to learn that lesson. I burned the throne to end this game. I allowed the North their Queen because we cannot afford to lose more if we are to survive the winter.”

“You are willing to allow the seven kingdoms to turn to six to stop the white walkers? Is the threat really so serious?”

“Yes,” Daenerys replied simply, starting to walk again. “Tell me, why did you accept Sansa’s proposal?”

Margaery hesitated, to reveal her true motivations would mean giving her information that she could exploit. But to be caught in a lie by either a Stark supporter or Daenerys herself.

“Because I care for her. For of all of the people I have met, for the kings I have bedded, Sansa Stark has always been the best person I have known. I know that I cannot stay in King’s Landing, and I know that you wouldn’t trust me back at High Garden where I could plot away.”

“You can’t plot if you’re in Winterfell?”

“I wouldn’t jeopardize Sansa to wage a war I wouldn’t win.”

“Would you give her up if it meant you would win.”

“No.” She didn’t bother to hesitate. The truth is that she wouldn’t give up Sansa, now that the option to have her was there. “I believe that you will make a fine Queen, your majesty. Your ideals are high but you have wings carry you to those heights.”

Daenerys hummed “Ser Loras, why did your family support Renly Baratheon before the Lannister’s?”

Loras moved from behind Daenerys to next to her. “Because I loved Renly, and my sister wanted to be Queen. She could be the queen and I could be with Renly if he was king. We supported him because I asked my family to. We supported him because I loved him.”

Loras’ candor shocked her. If he was willing to admit this to Daenerys….

“Once more Lady Margaery, why did you accept Sansa’s proposal?” Daenerys asked, an eyebrow raised, challenging her.

“I said yes because I love her.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes, its late and I am tired.

**Chapter 1**

Arya Stark was nothing like her sister, Margaery decided. She was not sweet, nor trusting when she shouldn’t be, and she definitely did not look at Margaery like she hung the moon.

They had been on the road for a while now, and the most interaction she got out of Arya had been when Margaery caught her staring. Neither would engage in conversation, Arya content to keep their silence and Margaery still slightly afraid of her companion. Occasionally, Arya would discuss swordsmanship techniques with Loras, who had remained by her side for most of the trip. Ser Jaime and Brienne would join in and Margaery would feel out of place. She would never let it show, and if asked she would point out that there were deadlier things in Westeros than swords. Never the less, the feeling persisted.

Instead of Arya, Margaery spent a great deal of time talking to Maester Tarly. He hadn’t spent a great deal of time with Sansa, just enough to know her through her coronation and the negotiations with Daenerys. Instead, he would regal her with stories of the Night’s Watch and his time with Jon Snow. Often, Arya would half turn to them, listening to his stories with a half-smile.

The first time that Arya actually spoke to her was as they came upon Harrenhal. It technically was still in the possession of Littlefinger, though rumor could not confirm if he was there or holed up in the Vale. Margaery remembered his interest in Sansa, remembered that he was the one to take her away from King’s Landing. She was thankful that Sansa had been taken away from there, but she worried what Baelish could have done in his time alone with Sansa.

Arya had been silent, not conversing with any of them and refusing to pass through the gates. Margaery had elected to stay with her, and as the night fell it began to get colder, Margaery’s cloaks were not suited for camping out, she began to shiver. She huddled closer to the fire Arya had start, missing the warmth of High Garden.

“You’re cold?” Arya’s voice startled her, not expecting the girl to speak to her at all.

“We’re not all used to winter,” she replied, eyes settling on Arya who carried a large bundle.

“Here, I was supposed to give this to you when we reached snow but Sansa would throw a fit if you froze before then.” Taking the bundle, Margaery found a cloak, heavy and warm, pale green in color embroidered with yellow flowers. Running her hands over the material reverently, Margaery was enraptured by the work. _It was good_. Something she would have paid to have done, she wondered idly if she could expect more clothes like this in Winterfell, or if she would be expected to wear the Stark’s direwolves. “It won’t do you any good if you just stare at it.”

Heeding her words, she pulled the cloak around her. It was warm and soft and Margaery loved it. “Thank you, Arya.”

Arya nodded, choosing to sit down near the fire, her own clothes bore no Stark heraldry, instead they looked closer to what a kitchen boy would wear. Without taking her eyes off the fire, Arya spoke, “What do you know of Petyr Baelish?”

Margaery blinked, “Littlefinger? He was the one to get Sansa out of King’s Landing. With both him and Tyrion gone, coin began to dry up. By the time Daenerys came, most of the coin in King’s Landing was borrowed from the Lannister’s. Slimy little man, but he was good at his job.”

“You must know more than that.”

Margaery hesitated, of course there was more. Baelish dealt in secrets which meant that he had his own. To think that Sansa had been with him for any amount of time…

“There are rumors of course. Of how he came to be Lord of the Vale.”

“What are they?”

“Most believed he had been in love with Catelyn Stark-”

“My mother?” Arya cut her off. Margaery leveled her with a look that had cowed larger men. Arya met her gaze but quieted, allowing Margaery to continue.

“He convinced her sister-”

“Lysa?”

“Should I expect you to interrupt me during all of our conversations?” Arya remained silent, but rested her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Baelish married Lysa Arryn and became regent of the Vale. She commit suicide but there are rumors among those who knew Petyr before, that he had something to do with it. But there are also rumors that Sansa was involved. Have you not asked Sansa about him?”

Arya shook her head, “She won’t talk about him. He hasn’t been seen since the battle of the bastards, but the North has a kill order for him.”

“Kill order?”

“If he enters our kingdom he dies. He’s not stupid enough to come to the North.” She stared into the fire, arms holding her knees to her chest. “I don’t know what he did to Sansa, but he’ll pay for it.”

A rustling in the brush nearby had Arya springing to her feet. Her sword in hand, she stood stock still, eyes watching for whatever may come. The Kingslayer stepped out of the shadows, sword drawn. “Get the horses saddled. We need to leave. Now.”

Arya moved, beginning to douse the fire. Jaime made his way Margaery, pulling her up and over to their horses, looking over his shoulders all the while.

“Where are the others?” Margaery asked, as she saddle her horse. They had gone into Harrenhal with Jaime, and for them not to come out did not bode well. “Where is my brother?”

“They are coming soon. They’re clearing a path for us. Get on your horse. Now. Shadow Wolf, take the rear.”

They galloped out of their clearing, heading fast towards the King’s Road. Loras was the first to reach them, his normally glittering armor obscured by dirt and blood. Brienne and Maester Tarly’s horses matched pass. They slowed for their horses, but did not stop, pushing through the night until they reached Darry.

_Your Majesty,_

_Our progress has been slow but steady. For now, we are resting at the Crossroads inn near Darry. I planned to write you when we reached Harrenhal but things have changed. Catelyn Stark lives on in death. Whatever curse is on Harrenhal has drawn her there. Brienne was the only one to speak with her as she demanded the death of Jaime Lannister upon seeing him. The shade, or witch, or whatever magic it is that has allowed for her to live, has turned her into something else. Her companions call her Lady Stoneheart and she is aptly named, having moved against all who had betrayed your family. Lady Margaery and Arya stayed outside of the castle and thus did not encounter her. Baelish has not been seen but it rumored he has locked himself in the Eyrie. We are safe here and will be getting new horses and heading out post haste. We are arranging for carriages and will head out when they have been arranged._

_Maester Tarly._

Sansa stared at the letter that had arrived days ago. Catelyn was alive. Her mother was alive. The Starks kept enduring, even if they changed to do so. Catelyn had endured the red wedding, now as Lady Stoneheart, just as Sansa had changed into a Queen.

The northern lords had wanted Jon as King in the North, had wanted to wage war against the Lannister’s. They had not thought about the threat beyond the Wall, content to believe that the White Walkers were stories to scare their children with, they were content to discount her. To them, she was a Stark when it was convenient. But she had always been a Stark, and she was just as much of a wolf as her siblings. She had survived King’s Landing when her father could not. She lived through the War of Five Kings and she had won.

Daenerys had taken King’s Landing and flown to the north, planning to squash any rebellion. She and Jon had greeted her and directed her on, past the wall to see the threat the walkers posed. When Daenerys returned, it was with questions and plans and orders. Jon wanted to fight, to protect his land and his people. Jon was a leader in battle, a general born. Sansa was a survivor, but no less a wolf. It was her who negotiated with Daenerys, northern freedom in exchange for dealing with the White Walkers.  Terms were agreed upon, Sansa would be Queen in the North, with her choice of consort.

Margaery had been an unexpected joy. Aspiring to be queen did not bode well for her chances of survival. But the word had arrived that Margaery was alive from the most unlikely of sources. Arya had arrived in dark clothes presenting herself to the meeting queens. She was more surprised by the familiarity of her sister and the Targaryen, wondered how they met, and what it would mean for their alliance. They had both stayed quiet about their acquaintance, though Arya had offered to tell her if she would talk about Baelish. She had given cursory details, but instead elected to tell Arya about Margaery.

Margaery… Jon was wary of her without even meeting her. It had been the only thing they had argued about. Jon had been willing to concede the throne to Sansa with strong faith in ability to lead. But her romantic choices had allowed room for skepticism. That combined with Margaery’s alliance with both Renly and the Lannister’s had given Jon cause to question Sansa’s judgement. It became a battle of wills between the two, and her first test as Queen. She had ordered Jon to accept it and made it her first decree. She would be taking a consort, and it would be Margaery Tyrell.

There had been some dissent among the lords, but she had quelled it quickly. The reminder that Margaery had successfully ruled in King’s Landing and that Jon did not want the throne had quieted them. Sansa knew they still entertained the notion of instilling Jon, and she knew she would need to crush that idea soon.

A knock on her door drew her from her musings.

“Enter,” she called out.

“It’s me, Sans.” Jon walked in, holding the door to allow Ghost to slip through. It was times like this that she missed Lady. Nightly, Jon would stop into Sansa’s room to discuss plans and talk about their pasts. While Ghost was loyal to Jon, he would allow Sansa to pet him. They hadn’t been close before but the they had taken the opportunity to grow close. He wasn’t her brother in blood, but they had been raised as siblings and Sansa would treat him as such.

Ghost settled at her feet as Jon took a seat by the fire. In the firelight, Jon looked like Ned. His face settled in the same serious lines but the light shone the same way. He watched her, eyes questioning but warm.

“Long day Lord Commander?” She teased.

He sighed dramatically before saying “The lords of the court want a war but aren’t willing to fight in one.”

She frowned, that would be a problem. “If they do fight do we have the forces to win?”

“You look like Catelyn when you frown like that,” Jon said, avoiding her question. She frowned harder, beginning to think about the situation with her mother. “Now you definitely look like her.”

“Do you hate her?”

“No.”

“Not even a bit?”

“I resented her for a time. She had made it clear that I was not her son. But she allowed me to live here and I had a better upbringing than most bastards.”

“So, resented but not hated?”

 “Catelyn didn’t know if I was Ned’s son and if I was, I would be a reminder of his infidelity. Ned was the most honorable man I have ever known, the idea that he would be unfaithful is terrible and to have that constant reminder…” Jon trailed off, gazing at the flames. “I do not hate her, and her resentment made me who I am.”

“You look like father when you do that,” Sansa told him. “Except broodier.”

It startled Jon out of his thoughts, he locked eyes with Sansa. “Broodier?”

Sansa began to laugh, causing Jon to as well. Years seemed to melt away and for a moment, they were carefree children again. No longer were they the Lord Commander and Queen; Jon was just a boy and Sansa just a girl. Their responsibilities had faded and for a time joyful innocence reigned.

Eventually their laughter faded and they fell into peaceful silence. Sansa’s thoughts once again drifted to Margaery.

“Tell me about her,” Jon once again pulled her from the edge of her thoughts.

“Who?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Margaery of course.”

Sansa stilled. She didn’t wish for their happiness to be ruined by another fight.

“I’ll tell you about Ygritte if you tell me about Margaery.” It was a fair trade. They had shared so much of their trials, commiserating in what they had endured but skirting around the aspects they had enjoyed. They had both learned to hide their good memories, cherishing them in secret so that nothing could taint them.

“She is beautiful. Every bit of a southron beauty. But not the way the Lannister’s were.” She bit her lip thinking of the way Margaery looked as they walked in the gardens so long ago. “Flowers are beautiful, and it is fitting that they are her house sigil. But she’s not just a great beauty,” the words seemed to flow out of her, no longer held back by fear of Jon’s judgement.

Jon himself looked interested and open. He sat forward in his chair, eyes warm with a soft smile on his face as he listened. “Go on,” he encouraged her.

“She’s smart, I’m sure you could tell by the fact that she was Queen for so long. But she played the game so well, she could even match Cersei. She was cunning though, never anything less than perfect in the eyes of the people.”

“Was she kind?”

“To me, yes. And to others. She had lemon cakes for me when I would visit. She listened to me about Joffrey, and other things.”

“Other things?”

“When I spoke, she would listen, about anything. I would always have her full attention if I wanted it.”

“When did you fall for her?”

Sansa paused, could she name a singular moment when she fell for Margaery? Was it when they walked in the garden? Or when she told her about Joffrey? Was it a singular point that she fell or was it a process? Had she already fallen or did she begin to fall when she met her and just hadn’t hit the ground yet?

“There wasn’t a singular point or action that caused me to fall for her. I began to fall when I met her and I haven’t stopped. She is the bright point in a dark life and I will do anything to keep her light in my life.”

Jon nodded, “Good.”

“Good?”

“If you feel that for her then I won’t stand in the way. But if she hurts you then I don’t care if you love her. You are my sister Sansa, maybe not by blood but in my heart. I will not stand for us to be torn apart again.”

Sansa flung herself at him, crying and hugging him tight. “You are a Stark, Jon. You are my brother and I love you.”

He held her close, allowing her to cry for all they had lost; their childhood, their lives, their family, and their innocence. When she had calmed down, she squeezed him once more and then let go. She pretended not to see Jon wiping his eyes, instead petting Ghost and settling back in his chair. Jon cleared his throat, drawing her attention.

“So, would you like to hear about Ygritte?”

Margaery did not like snow. Actually, she liked snow but she hated the weather that came with it. It was the weather that came with snow that she didn’t like. She hated the cold, the wind, the wet. She hated the grey drabness and the lack of color. It was so different from Highgarden with its bright colors, warm air, and clear skies.

The party had pushed on from Darry. They had switched to carriages to progress their journey but Margaery was tired. She wanted a real bed, and the comforts of fresh food. She wanted Sansa.

Time had passed both quickly and slowly on the road. She was surprised by how quickly they gotten to the north, but getting to Winterfell was exhausting. Arya had said that they would reach Winterfell today and now Margaery was antsy. Winterfell had fallen in their sight at some point in the morning. But now they were close, soon they would pass through the gates. Soon she would see Sansa.

“Worried, sister?” Loras was not looking at her but was rather staring out the window.

“Aren’t you?”

“I remember how Sansa looked at you. That girl loves you Marg and she wouldn’t have made this offer if she didn’t still care for you.”

Before Margaery could respond the carriage stopped.  Ser Jaime opened the door and allowed them out. A party was assembled to greet them, decked out in dark cloaks and furs. She watched as Arya ran to her siblings, yelling out “Jon, Sansa.”  A dark haired, serious man greeted her, pulling her into a hug. _Jon_ , she assumed. When they released each other, Arya turned to Sansa who embraced her. Words too soft for Margaery to hear were exchanged and Sansa threw her head back and laughed.

The sound was absolutely enchanting to Margaery. She stared at Sansa, enraptured by how she had changed.

Maester Tarly was next, greeting both at the same time with a bow. A simple ‘welcome back’ was given to him.

“I didn’t think it could get any colder here. The Starks continue to surprise me,” Jamie spoke in greeting to the family.

“Hopefully we will continue to surprise you, Ser Jaime,” Sansa replied.

“I’m sure you will, Your Grace.” Jaime bowed low and moved aside.

Brienne bowed and murmured a simple “Your Grace” before moving on.

She and Loras stood before them together.

“Welcome, Ser Loras and Lady Margaery. We are grateful that you have joined us and hope you settle in quickly to your new home,” the Lord Commander greeted them. “I look forward to your and Ser Jaime’s counsel, Ser Loras.”

“Thank you for the warm welcome, my Lord,” Margaery answered for the both of them. She curtsied before turning to Sansa.

“I am glad that you made it safely. I hope the journey did not tire you too much,” Sansa smiled at her as she spoke. “Your cloak looks marvelous Lady Margaery.”

“Thank you for the wonderful gift, Your Grace.” Margaery moved to curtsy but Sansa grabbed her hands and pulled her into a hug instead.

Speaking lowly so that only Margaery would hear, Sansa whispered to her, “I am so glad you are here, my flower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout for Janie for putting up with me and Dinners Tarragon. Also come talk to me on tumblr @mstoker


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery falls down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2  
> Apologies for any errors.

**Chapter 2**

Margaery slipped out of her room several hours after night fell.

Since arriving at Winterfell earlier in the day, she had been swept up in a flurry of activities. Introductions, a tour of the grounds, a small dinner. Sansa had assured her they would have a feast in a few days to introduce her formally to the northern lords and to bid farewell to Jon and Jaime as they moved to the front. Eventually, Sansa had led her to her room, ensuring that she would be comfortable. She had sent her off with a kiss on her cheek and a promise for them to talk in the morning. Waiting for the relative silence to fall and for the citizens of Winterfell to sleep had seemed to take forever, but Margaery did not want spectators for her nightly ritual.

It had been something she had done back in King’s Landing, praying silently to the Old Gods to protect Sansa. On her brief tour, they had passed by the Godswood and she knew she should give thanks to them for hearing her prayers, for keeping Sansa safe.

She missed the warmth of her room immediately. The fire had been a strong barrier against the cold and the bed piled high with furs had almost convinced her to stay and wait. The halls were lit by torches, though they were few and far between. For a moment, she faltered. The torches cast shadows and it was like she was back under the Sept, in her cell. Trapped, cold, and alone.

_Stop._

She shook herself, pulled her cloak tight, and moved.

Avoiding the guards in King’s Landing had been a game. A few coins, a bit of wine, a little flirting and she was practically a ghost.

Avoiding guards in Winterfell was much easier. They stayed close to torches and fires, attempting to ward off the cold but making themselves clearly visible. It took time, but Margaery managed to make her way to the Godswood.

The ground was layered with snow, which quickly soaked through the shoes Margaery had chosen. By the time she made it to the Weirwood tree in the center, she was shivering, distinctly unprepared for winter. She dropped to her knees and stared up at the face in the wood.

“In King’s Landing it is said that the Old Gods have no power in the south. But, I prayed to you to protect Sansa Stark, and she is alive and well. I don’t know if the seven kept Loras and I alive, or just luck or something else. But I know that you have power here, and I will continue to ask that you protect Sansa Stark. The War of Five Kings may be over but I fear that the game of thrones continues.” Margaery paused, willing her voice not to tremble. She had never been particularly religious, and her prayers had always been silent, even when she was praying for her family. There was something particularly vulnerable about voicing her prayers aloud, as if then her fears became tangible. “Please, keep her safe. If you have to separate us again then so be it, but keep her safe.”

A wind whispered through the trees, as though the gods had heard her prayer. Margaery stood and shivered. Nodding once, she turned in her spot and froze. Large red eyes stared at her from across the pool of water in front of the Weirwood. The shape of the creature took form and she recognized the Jon Snow’s direwolf. She failed to notice the man standing to the side of the water until he spoke.

“He won’t hurt you, you know.” Jon’s voice was low and quiet, but in the silence of the night, it was enough to scare her. Margaery screamed. The vulnerability of prayer, her fear at seeing Ghost, and the shock of Jon’s voice had taken her composure.

In her fear, Margaery took a step away from Jon’s voice. But her soaked shoes slipped on the snow and she fell headfirst into the water.

It felt like burning. The coldness of her skin due to her poor outfitting and the warm waters of the spring contrasted sharply. She struggled in the water, but strong hands pulled her out and away. She lay on the ground gasping as Jon checked her over.

“Are you alright?” Margaery nodded. “I’m going to pick you up and take you back. With your permission, Lady Tyrell?” Again, she nodded. Jon picked her up, cradling her in his arms. “We’ll need to get you dry and warm,” he paused before looking off. “Ghost, get Sansa.”

Margaery didn’t know if the direwolf listened, but Jon began walking towards the castle. He didn’t look at her, but began to talk, voice low, as though he was afraid of others hearing. “Do you know why I supported Sansa as Queen?” He didn’t wait for a response, simply continued speaking. “She played the game of thrones and she lived. Survived, even when our father didn’t. The northern lords tell me how similar to him I am.” He dropped his voice into what Margaery assumed was an imitation of one of the lords. “‘King in the North, a true Stark, Ned’s son through and through.’” His voice returned to normal, though it was bitter. “They all forget that he died and Sansa survived. Or that they let Bolton rule Winterfell. They ignore that I’m a bastard but growing up it was something they wouldn’t let me forget. They want Ned Stark, they want Robb, they want me. But none of us gave them their freedom, none of us survived the game of thrones. Sansa survived, Sansa won. You helped her in King’s Landing and I expect that you will help her again. The War of Five Kings was bad but the threat we face is much worse.”

“Jon! Margaery?” Sansa’s voice cried out.

Margaery turned to the noise, recognizing Sansa’s voice immediately.

“What’s going on? Why is Margaery soaking? Why are you carrying her? Is she hurt-” Sansa began to speak a mile a minute, only to be cut off by Jon.

“Sansa, we need to get her dry and warm. Go ahead and light a fire in her room and make sure that there are warm enough clothes for her.”

“I’ll do it.” A third voice spoke.

_Arya_. Margaery thought.

“Are you okay?” Sansa asked, this time addressing Margaery directly.

“Cold,” she answered quietly.

“What were you doing out there? Why are you wet?”

“I-”

“She fell into the spring in the Godswood,” Jon answered her. “I startled her and she slipped.”

“You startled her?” Sansa’s tone was accusatory and Margaery was filled with fondness.

“You can berate me later, now open the door for me.”

Margaery hadn’t even noticed that they had entered the castle, much less made it all the way to her room. She felt Jon’s strong arms let go as she was set on her bed.

“Thank you, Jon,” she bit out.

“Of course, Lady Tyrell.” He turned to Sansa. “Dry clothes and then set her by the fire. Let her rest but only when her skin is warm again. I’ll let Sam know what happened.”

“Loras.”

“I’ll tell him as well. Ghost will be outside the door.” With that, Jon walked away. Arya watched them for a moment, conversing silently with Sansa. After a moment, she nodded and followed Jon out, closing the door behind her.

Sansa moved in front of her, reaching to pull her cloak off. The garment hit the floor with a wet thud. Sansa’s hands hesitated to begin pulling of Margaery’s dress. “It has to come off. So that we can put you in warmer clothes.”

Margaery nodded and on shaky legs she stood up and turned around.  One hand went to Margaery’s waist and the other moved to unclasp the dress. Sansa’s hands lingered upon her back, the softness of her skin entranced her, yet the coolness of it brought her back to reality.  

The night dress was soft to touch, dark grey in color, and thick to ward off the cold. A blue robe was added on top, tied around the waist.

Margaery turned around and Sansa was struck by the difference in Margaery. Gone was the confident and cunning woman she had met in King’s Landing. Those layers had been stripped away by water, cold, and the long journey; what was left was a woman who had fought for what she had wanted and had her world changed on her constantly. Sansa’s heart ached, knowing what it was like to be at the mercy of fate and to have all efforts at agency taken away. She pulled Margaery into a tight hug. This woman had protected her in King’s Landing and Sansa would protect her in return.

Margaery’s hand grasped onto her and Sansa let her tremble against her for a few moments. Pulling away, Sansa set a soft kiss upon Margaery’s forehead. She situated Margaery into a chair in front of the fire, pulling several blankets off her bed and setting them onto her. When she was satisfied that Margaery would warm up, she took a seat in the chair next to her. They were comfortable, but not as comfortable nor as familiar as the one in her rooms.

“You’ve had an eventful first day in Winterfell,” Sansa noted.

“Thinking of assigning guards to keep me out of trouble?”

Sansa smiled, “No. I don’t think that would do any good. Besides, you aren’t a prisoner here. You are free to go where you like. Even the Godswood. Though I do wonder what you were doing in there.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was going for a swim?”

“Maybe it’s a southron thing but most of us northerners don’t go swimming fully dressed in the middle of the night.”

For a moment, Margaery didn’t respond, simply watching the flames dance in the fire.

“I was praying,” Margaery spoke quietly.

Sansa heard it, the whisper of words, her brow furrowed. “We have a sept for you to pray in. You needn’t go to the Godswood for that.”

“I was praying to the Old Gods,” Margaery informed her as though it was a simple thing. As though Sansa should know that she would be praying to them.

“The Old Gods? I thought all southroners followed the seven?” As always, Margaery was surprising her.

“They do.”

“Then why were you praying to the Old Gods?”

“Because, dear Sansa, you are not.”

“I am afraid I don’t follow.”

“I prayed to the Old Gods because they are your Gods. You follow them and when you left King’s Landing… I was desperate enough to pray to them. Hoping that they would protect you. And then, you were alive and well and ruling the North and I knew they had heard my prayers. But we both know that the game of thrones is not over, and so I went to the Godswood to ask the Old Gods to continue to protect you. The seven did nothing to answer my prayers to protect you, the Old Gods did and so I will pray to the Old Gods.”

Sansa was awestruck. This woman was giving up her religion for her, because she wanted her to be safe.

“Sansa, you must realize how much you mean to me,” Margaery’s voice was pleading, eyes desperate.

“I…realized you cared for me of course, but…”

“But you are used to others doing things for their own gain. Myself included,” she closed her eyes.

Springing to her feet Sansa exclaimed “No!”

Their gazes met as Margaery opened her eyes.

“No?” Margaery raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t questioned my motives?”

Sinking to her knees, Sansa kneeled in front of Margaery. Margaery took Sansa’s hands and held them on her lap.

Relief filled Sansa at the faint warmth of Margaery’s hand. Resolving herself to answer honestly, Sansa spoke. “When we first met, yes I did doubt. But I wanted so desperately for you to be a true friend. And you have been! You must understand Margaery, that I’ve admired you since we met. Of course, at the time I didn’t realize the extent of my admiration for you. When I invited you here I hoped that my affection for you would be returned but I resigned myself to the possibility that you only accepted out of self-preservation. To hear you abandon your whole system of faith, after leaving your home and your ambitions behind… Yes, I doubted you once, but I don’t doubt you now.”

Laying her hand on Margaery’s knees, Sansa stared into the fire, voice quiet as she spoke. “I lost so much, so many people. Spent so long being a pawn in other people’s plans. Now, I have a duty to the people of my kingdom, I am still controlled by what they want and what they need. I just want to have one thing for myself. Not the throne, or northern freedom; those things are for my people. The only thing I want, that I have allowed myself to want, is to have you with me. To have my family back is wonderful, but I know how easy it is to lose them, that due to our positions and our duties that I may lose them again. What I want to have, the one thing I have indulged for myself, is you. Whether it as a friend, a peer, an advisor, or more. I want you here.”

When she started crying Sansa didn’t know. But one of Margaery’s hands released her own to thread through her hair. The gesture was so soft, so kind, that Sansa relaxed automatically against Margaery.

“Darling…”

She looked up as Margaery trailed off. Margaery leaned forward, tilting Sansa’s head up with the hand still threaded in her hair. She did not meet her lips, instead asking, “May I?”

“Why ask?” She could feel Margaery’s breathe on her lips, wanted nothing more than to feel them against her own.

“I won’t take away your choice,” she answered softly.

Sansa’s heart ached at the answer. “Please.”

Margaery’s lips were soft. Gentle in the same way as she held her hand in her hair. As Margaery pulled away, Sansa wished she hadn’t. She wished they could stay in that simple moment forever. No future, no White Walkers, no kingdom to run, just them together in the firelight.

“You will have me Sansa Stark. As a friend, a peer, an advisor and more. You have me,” Margaery’s words were reverent. A promise between the two reunited hearts in the deep of the night, readying themselves to face the coming days.

“I suppose I should put you to bed, let you rest after the journey and your swim.” Sansa changed the subject, unready to voice the way Margaery’s words made her feel.

Smirking, Margaery let the matter drop. “One kiss and you’re trying to get me in bed? My you have grown bold Sansa Stark.”

She did not blush but instead rose to her feet smiling back, “Let’s get you laying down.”

“Many things can be done laying down, darling,” she remarked as Sansa began moving the blankets off her.

“The only thing you’ll be doing laying down is resting,” Sansa assured her. She took the robe off, leaving it on the chair.

Laying on the bed, the sheets were surprisingly soft. Sansa lingered as she set the blankets around Margaery, unwilling to leave her yet. Sansa leaned down and laid a kiss upon Margaery’s forehead.

“You don’t have to leave you know,” Margaery said and Sansa pulled away.

“Margaery, you need to rest and-”

“We’ll just sleep, Sansa. Please just stay,” she pleaded.

Sansa was tempted. Oh Gods, she was tempted.

“Body heat is the best way to ensure that I stay warm. If you really need an excuse,” she added.

Sansa sighed dramatically before catching Margaery’s gaze. Dissolving into giggles, she resolved to stay with Margaery.

Taking a dressing gown from Margaery’s armoire, Sansa began to undress. Cloak and dress were laid upon her chair, the fire doused, and Margaery looked content. Sansa could see it, going to bed with her every night, being her wife, being together.

“Come to bed, Sansa. I would like to sleep sometime soon,” Margaery called teasingly.

The bed was large enough to fit them both comfortably, however, Sansa was unsure of the boundaries. _Did Margaery like to cuddle? How much touching was okay between them? What would happen in the morning? What about the meetings she had later? With Brienne and Sers Loras and Jaime about Lady Stoneheart?_

“Darling you are thinking entirely too loud. Please close your eyes and sleep,” Margaery rolled towards her, settling an arm around her waist. “Whatever comes in the morning, we’ll deal with it, together.”

Letting the thoughts of tomorrow leave her mind, Sansa drifted off to sleep, secured by the weight of Margaery’s arm and the warmth of her presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by my procrastination of 3 essays and the Dixie Chicks.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siblings that talk about murder are the best siblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have watched all 4 seasons of vikings in 5 days, written 3 papers and taken 1 of my finals and that's why you're getting this update now. Side note: I love my wife Lagertha.

**Chapter 3**

“How can we be sure that the wildings will be loyal to us? They’ve been living in the wilderness for so long, how can we expect them to behave with civilized company? How do we know they won’t just over run the land?” Lord Whitehill questioned loudly. He was an ugly man, un-fond of bathing and with a penchant for shouting instead of speaking.

“If we are to judge them by the standards you hold yourself to, Lord Whitehill, it will not be very hard for the wildings be considered loyal or civilized,” Lady Cassel replied to him. “Not to be forgotten, the northern kingdom no longer ends at the wall. I have no doubt that there will be plenty of room once the threat of white walkers has been dealt with.”

“I am aware that the kingdom doesn’t end at the wall, but to allow foreigners into our kingdom, especially while we are weak like a newborn, isn’t practical,” Whitehall spit out. “Winter is coming and we don’t have the resources to support ourselves, much less any newcomers.”

“Winter is here, Lord Whitehall,” Sansa corrected him. “And the wildings have sworn fealty to us. They are formally part of our kingdom and we will treat them as such.”

“That still does not solve our problem of who we can afford to feed!” Whitehall exclaimed, shooting up from his seat.

Margaery cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the lords.

“Something to say, Tyrell?” Whitehall sneered at her.

“Just a few questions, actually. A chance to offer a new perspective,” Margaery smiled at him disarmingly.

“And what, pray tell, do the southroners know about surviving the winter?” Whitehall sighed out, dropping back into his chair with a loud thud.

“What are your questions, Lady Tyrell?” Lyanna Mormont broke into the conversation.

Margaery smiled sweetly at Lyanna before speaking “Thank you Lady Mormont. I simply wished to know how the wildings survived before joining with your kingdom? I would assume they had some way to sustain themselves. Lord Commander Snow, you spent time among the wildlings, I assume that they don’t sustain themselves by sheer force of will?”

“No, though I believe they could do it,” Jon smiled wryly at Margaery. “The Northern lands are hard and unforgiving to its’ inhabitants. The wilding tribes survived through their intelligence and careful planning. All of them have skills we can use, whether that be fighting or hunting or crafting armor.”

“What about farming? How do things grow in the north?” Margaery inquired. “And trade? Will trade with the six kingdoms continue?”

Murmurs between the lords broke out, before Jon spoke, “Farming past the wall is difficult but not impossible, the land is treacherous. As for trade-”

“As the lord of city who relies upon trade, and as our kingdom will need to rely upon it, I do hope you have made plans for trade,” Lord Manderly cut in.

“Queen Daenerys has agreed to allow trade with our kingdom. In addition, Daenerys has reclaimed Dragonstone, the original seat of House Targaryen. She is gifting our troops with dragon glass, which has been proven to work against the white walkers,” Sansa answered soothingly, seemingly unbothered by Manderly’s concern.

 “What of the Dreadfort? With the demise of the Bolton line, there is no ruling lord. The land there is fertile and has supported us through winter’s past. Either we need to raise a new house to lordship, or grant one of the current houses the lands so that we may use it,” Whitehill tossed in.

“Perhaps, my family could be of some assistance in that matter,” Margaery laid a hand on Sansa’s arm, but turned to speak to Whitehill. “We are rather adept at growing things.”

“A southroner take control of the Dreadfort? I’d rather see it burn,” Whitehill went red with rage.

“Tell me Lord Whitehill, would you prefer your men to die from starvation or from the white walkers?” Sansa spoke sharply.  “You just complained that we don’t have the supplies to support this war, and now that a solution is presented you dismiss it because of your prejudices. I will negotiate with House Tyrell over the use of the Dreadfort. I am sure that a family who has made their fortune on growing things will be of use to us.”

“You would rather give our lands to your southron bitch than reward northern families for being loyal?” Whitehill shifted, a hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

The shift in tension was immediate. Manderly and Lyanna Mormont traded looks. Margaery stiffened in her chair. But Sansa remained unperturbed, instead, she clasped Margaery’s hand in her own, fixing Whitehill with a hard look.

“Lord Whitehill, I would suggest your next words be an apology, or I will be offended on behalf of Lady Margaery.” Arya’s voice was quiet, but strong. Margaery had forgotten she was in the room, she had been so still and silent since they had entered.

The color quickly drained from Whitehill’s face, and he released his grip on the hilt of his sword. Arya lifted her chin, causing Whitehill to mumble out a few apologies, lowering his gaze from Arya’s.

Turning to look at Margaery, Sansa’s murderous look faded away, replaced with soft adoration. “Would you be willing to negotiate on behalf of your family to send farmers and supplies to the Dreadfort to tend to the land there while our soldiers go north to fight the White Walkers?”

“Of course. Though my family lives in the High Garden, we are aware of the threat of the Walkers and want to help vanquish this threat to us all,” Margaery answered her, she hesitated for a second before continuing. “I am sure that for the wedding, my family will come up to the north. If we send word to bring with them farmers and supplies they can begin to choose several to bring with them.”

Several of the northern lords exchanged looks before Lady Cerwyn spoke up, “I must ask, and I feel that many of us are wondering, what will your wedding entail, Lady Margaery?”

“I admit, I am unfamiliar with wedding customs in the north. Are they very different from the south?” Sansa’s thumb had begun stroking Margaery’s own. Each stroke seeming to release the tension from Margaery’s body as she answered.

“As followers of the Old Gods, we don’t have septon’s so it is usually officiated by the groom’s father, though I’m sure you two may choose someone else to officiate. The bride is usually led to the ceremony by her father or brother, there are some lines spoken, the claiming of the bride, and then a prayer to the Old Gods to bless the marriage. The ceremony is in front of the Weirwood tree so that the Gods may witness it,” Lord Howland Reed informed her. “However, when Ned married Catelyn their ceremony followed the tradition of the Seven for Catelyn. We can do something similar for you, or we could do the ceremony twice, once for the Seven and once for the Old Gods.”

Margaery smiled kindly at Lord Reed, squeezing Sansa’s hand before speaking, “The two ceremonies will not be necessary. I plan to marry in front of the Old Gods.”

Murmurs once again filled the room. Lord Reed smiled slightly at Margaery, nodding in acquiescence.

“We will have to modify the ceremony, obviously. But, it should be fairly simple. If there are no more matters to discuss?” Sansa looked at each member for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for Lord Whitehill to voice another objection. When nothing arose, she smiled again, “Then I thank you all for your time. The feast will begin at sundown, until then, please enjoy yourselves.”

The lords began to file out, though the Starks and Margaery remained. When the last one filed out, the tension seemed to break as Sansa leaned back and sighed heavily.

“So, are northern politics very different from the south?” Arya asked.

“Most lords wouldn’t have called me a bitch to my face, though they’d say it behind my back. For all of his faults, I do admire Whitehill’s bluntness,” Margaery smiled wryly.

“I’m not sure anyone has ever genuinely admired anything about Whitehill. He might pass out if you were to tell him,” Jon chimed in.

“Him dropping dead would be better,” Arya shot back.

“Would you like me to call him back in? See what happens?” Margaery grinned at Arya, who smiled widely in return.

“It would cause about as many problems as it would solve. If anyone dies anywhere near your wedding they’re going to start saying our family is cursed,” Arya’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Could be useful, actually. Though, hopefully neither of you would be the ones dying.”

Sansa ran her free hand over her face, once again sighing dramatically, “Thank you for your support Arya. I don’t suppose you have any suggestions for dealing with Whitehill that don’t involve murder?”

Jon released a small laugh, looking fondly between his two sisters. The adoration shown clearly on his face, his dark eyes filled with warmth as a small smile played upon his lips.

“We could always have Ghost scare him. Or Jon. It worked on Margaery,” Arya teased Sansa.

“Margaery almost drowned. I said things that don’t involve murder.”

“Well we just won’t scare him in the Godswood. We can do it during the feast or after it.”

“He could choke or have a heart attack! You’re still in the murder territory.”

“Is it murder or natural causes?”

“If it’s intentional to cause him to choke and die, it’s murder.”

“But who’s going to accuse you of murdering him?”

“I would like to have a wedding without murder or coercion, please.” Sansa spoke exasperatedly, but she was finally smiling widely.

“Do either of you know how to have a wedding without those?”

At this, Margaery jumped in, “Are we just counting weddings or the marriages as a whole?”

“Marriages. Renly was murdered so I’m counting that,” Arya answered confidently.

“Ah, then a marriage without coercion or murder will be a new adventure for the two of us to have together,” Margaery widely at Sansa, enjoying the carefree look on her face.

Arya made a face, which led to Sansa swatting at her. Quiet laughter filled the chamber from the four of them, a welcomed reprieve from the heaviness of the coming days and their duties.

A knock on the door startled them all, though the appearance of Brienne was not unwelcome.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, but the meeting ended and none of you had come out so I thought I should check you’re all still alive,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

“You’re only interrupting Arya plotting murder, and we should probably thank you for that,” Jon answered for them. “Are Jaime and Loras still on for sparing?”

“They are waiting in the courtyard.”

“Alright then.” Jon stood up and moved to Arya, who had risen from her chair at Brienne’s entrance. In one quick motion, he picked Arya up and flung her over his shoulders. He walked away, bidding farewell to Margaery and Sansa with a nod, laughing at Arya’s halfhearted protests at being carried.

Left alone with Sansa, Margaery began to study her.

 Sansa had aged from when Margaery had seen her in King’s Landing. Gone was the quiet, naïve, girl who had warned her about the horrors of Joffrey. Here, in Winterfell, Sansa was a Queen. Strong willed and smart, with all the power that came from surviving. Occasionally, a dark look would pass over Sansa, and she seemed to be a million miles away. She would brush off any questions that arose from it, as though raising shields against any attacks they may bring. Still, softness lingered underneath, showing itself in moments such as this, around her family and away from prying eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Sansa’s voice broke Margaery out of her thoughts.

Margaery raised Sansa’s hand her to lips, placing a soft kiss upon it before speaking, “You. Your rule, your power. How much you changed. How much you’ve grown. How you aren’t the girl I met in King’s Landing anymore, but you still are. In all the important ways.”

“That’s quite a lot.”

“You’re quite the woman,” she cheekily answered.

“How am I different?” she asked, voice filled with curiosity.

“Oh, in many ways you are different. You’re more confident. You understand your power, how to wield it. You’re still quiet, though it no longer seems to be out of fear. Rather you seem to have realized how much you can learn from silence,” Margaery hesitated a moment before continuing. “You have walls now. More than you had in King’s Landing. But there is still the softness I fell for. The tenderness is there when you hold my hand. Or when you laugh at Jon or bicker with Arya. I cherish when you are together, because they make you smile and I feel like you don’t do enough of that.”

Sansa remained quiet for several moments while Margaery finished, though she remained raptly staring at her. Eventually, her brow furrowed, head titling to the side, she asked, “My power? As Queen, you mean?”

Margaery shook her head. “Yes and no. Power is inherent while authority is derived from the consent of the ruled. You have always had power. The power to survive, to persuade, to lead. As Queen, you are granted the authority to use them within your capacity as such. Cersei held power even if she when she did not hold the authority of Queen. When people stopped treating her as queen, she stopped having the authority over people. She still had power, but the effect of it was diminished as she did could not use it to the effect that a queen could.”

“I see.” Sansa nodded and squeezed Margaery’s hand.

“Sansa, is there something wrong?”

The question had lingered on Margaery’s mind for several days. Upon waking in the morning after her fall in the Godswood, Sansa had begun doting on Margaery. She had demanded that Margaery stay in bed and rest for a while, even after Maester Tarly had declared her to be in good health. Originally, Margaery had protested against Sansa treating her as if she were infirm, but seeing the worry in Sansa’s eyes had persuaded her to indulge Sansa’s request. Her two days in bed were spent with a plethora of visitors. Loras had been the first in the morning, first yelling at her for falling in the water and then teasing her for it.

Jon had stopped by, bringing food and stories about Sansa from when they were younger. Loras and Jon eventually teamed up to tease their siblings and share stories, leading to both Sansa and Margaery blushing as red as Sansa’s hair

Arya had been the one to convince Sansa to move, telling her she had news and then locking her out of Margaery’s room for an hour, citing that Sansa “needed to attend to her duties.” (If Sansa had chased Arya throughout the castle, only for Arya to escape by climbing in through the window to Margaery’s room. Well, Sansa didn’t need to know how hard she had laughed at her misfortune.)

 Jaime and Brienne both stopped in to brief Sansa about Winterfell, what improvements they felt could be made and their plans to move north. But it was in the moments in between the visitors and their own conversations, when Sansa would get that far off look in her eye, that had Margaery worried.

“So much has happened. So many burdens I face, so much loss is behind me, and I fear even more is ahead. It feels as if darkness creeps into every corner, and when I light fires to fight the shadows, I only end up burning everything down. I wonder if I made the right choice by taking the throne. I wonder about the fall of the wall and what it means for the future of my kingdom. I worry about Petyr Baelish and his plots. About my mother. About Bran, where he is, if he’s even still alive,” Sansa released Margaery’s hand, clasping her own together and resting her head against them as she took a shaky breath, eyes closed. “For all the power you think I have, all the control, there is so much that I can’t. And I am so afraid of failing. Failing my people, my family, you. I wonder what my father would think of me. There is just so much and I…”

A sob escaped Sansa, causing Margaery to move her chair so that she could face her and cradle Sansa’s head in her hands. Softly, her thumbs wiped away the tears that fell from her eyes, and she whispered, “Darling…”

She pulled Sansa close, allowing her to bury her head in her neck. When Sansa’s sobs slowly subsided, she began to speak. “Darling, I promised you that you wouldn’t do this alone. Those burdens you face are not just yours, but ours. Loss may be ahead of us, but so are so many other wonderful things; love, hope, happiness, our family, peace. I can not assuage your fears about Littlefinger and his plots, as I know just how slimy that man is. But, all of those worries and fears, we can deal with together. But Sansa, you must start trusting me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. So please trust me and tell me. Let me help, love. Please, let me help.”

Nodding, Sansa took several shuddering breaths and moved away from Margaery. “Okay, okay. Yes. Trust.”

“Tell me your worries about Littlefinger first. Arya said there is an order for him to be killed if he steps into the north. Why?”

“He was in love with my mother, wanted her, obsessed over her. He claimed the Vale by killing my aunt, who loved him. And he married me off to Bolton, claiming he didn’t know what kind of monster he was. But he always knows, doesn’t he? That’s just the man he is. When Daenerys came north, Baelish was still here with his forces. We met her at the wall to ensure that she would go north and know the threat of the White Walkers. But Baelish, he pulled out this horn, something Maester Tarly had found. Baelish stole it and blew the horn and the wall fell. He thought it was something to control dragons. He was going to enslave them and us, and then the wall fell. And instead of dealing with the consequences, he fled to the Vale. Left all of his troops to die. He is a vile man and if he enters this kingdom he will die.”

“Oh Sansa…” Margaery leaned and left a soft kiss on her forehead. “And that is why you are thinking of your mother? Because he is obsessed with her?”

“No,” Sansa shook her head. “Not entirely for that reason. Do you know why you had to flee from Harrenhal?”

“I assume that someone recognized Ser Jaime and attacked.”

“Technically, you are right. It was my mother.”

“Your mother? How?”

“Magic, of some kind. Apparently, she’s been killing all responsible for helping the Lannister’s.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone responsible for Robb’s death. And my father’s, I assume. I know it isn’t my mother, not anymore, but knowing that she’s out there, even as a shade of her former self. It’s very tempting to run off and see her.”

“Do you think she would go after Littlefinger if she knew?”

Sansa paused, piecing a plan together. “You my dear, are brilliant.”

“Is she working with a group? Some way we could get a message to her?”

Sansa stood up, “We’ll need to talk to Maester Tarly about sending a message.”

“What about Daenerys?” Margaery followed her lead, pulling her cloak around her as they headed towards the doors.

“Daenerys? What about her?” Sansa walked quickly, intent on finding Maester Tarly.

“She’s queen of the six kingdoms and your mother is in her lands. She should be told at the very least. Especially if Baelish is acting as Lord of the Vale. Not to mention, if his crimes were to be made public, and his location wasn’t hidden…”

“Lady Stoneheart would go after him.”

“Is that what she’s called?”

“I don’t know who dubbed her, but from what I’ve heard about this shade, it’s fitting.” Sansa strode ahead of Margaery, focused solely on her mission.

“Sansa wait a moment.” At Margaery’s request Sansa spun around, allowing for Margaery to catch up to her. Placing her arms around Sansa’s neck, Margaery pulled her down into a kiss. Despite her surprise, Sansa immediately began melting into the kiss, fisting her hands in Margaery’s cloak, pulling her closer.

She let herself get lost in the smell of Margaery; a mix of roses and honey. In her taste; the wine she drank earlier. In the urgency and emotion expressed in the kiss, all else faded away.

Until someone cleared their throat.

Pulling away from Margaery, Sansa turned to look at the source of the noise, finding Jaime Lannister watching them carefully.

“Yes, Ser Jaime?” Margaery spoke first.

“Davos sent word from the front. Your Majesty, they found your brother, Bran. He’s alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want faster updates, please harass me over at mstoker.tumblr.com the more you yell at me the more I will actually work on this.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very bad at having a schedule during the summer. All apologies for lateness and also for any mistakes.

**Chapter 4**

Lord Howland Reed was intimidating. With all the seriousness of Jon, the wildness of Arya, and the stubbornness of Sansa, he fit in well among the Starks. There was something different about him though, Margaery noted, something in the way he held himself. Like he was present in the moment but at the same time, very far away and moving ever farther.

“It’s time we talked about your heritage, Jon Snow,” Howland said, standing near the door. He had not moved since they had called him in.

Margaery stood to leave, wanting to allow the Stark’s this private matter. Instead she was stopped by Howland, who fixed her with a look that made Margaery feel small. He seemed to be taking account of her, and she wondered for a moment if he could read her mind, or see her past. Pushing the notion from her mind, she willed herself to remain impassive under his gaze. She was used to the politics of the south. Of lords who looked down on her, lusted after her, wanted to possess her, wanted to break her. This northern lord was something different entirely, but she assumed that her course of action should be the same; smile and let him believe that he had the upper hand.

“There is no need for you to leave Lady Margaery,” he gestured for her to sit.

“This is a Stark matter, I simply wish to give them some privacy,” she smiled, but did make to leave or sit.

“You will be a Stark soon enough,” he stated with finality.

“He’s right. You should stay Margaery,” Jon said, shifting from his place by the fire. “Please sit as well, Lord Reed.”

Margaery took a seat next to Sansa, who immediately grasped her hand. Sansa looked to Howland warily. “What do you know about my brother’s heritage, Lord Reed?”

“Call me Howland. I knew your father too well for you to be formal with me,” his gaze was steady on Jon as he answered Sansa. “I knew your mother as well, Jon. And your father, though I can not say we were friends.”

“My father is Eddard Stark, were you not friends with him?”

“No, Ned is not your father, not in blood at least. In heart, yes, for he loved you and raised you as his son. But your father was Rhaegar Targaryen and your mother was Lyanna Stark; the product of ice and fire.”

No one moved. The silence was heavy, the weight of his words manifesting physically. They all looked to Jon, as if the truth of his heritage would somehow reveal a different man, some glimpse of Rhaegar or some evidence of a dragon. But all that remained was the white wolf, the crow, the bastard son; Jon Snow.

“How’d you know?” It was Arya that broke the silence. She drew their attention away from Jon and back to Howland.

“I was with Ned when he got Jon.”

“I don’t look like a Targaryen,” Jon mused. “Shouldn’t I have light hair?”

“You’ve always been a Stark through and through.” Howland had not stopped looking at Jon, as if he was waiting for him to snap, to prove him wrong.

“Should we be worried about Daenerys’ reaction to this? How many people know?” Margaery was already moving on to the possible political fallout that may come from this revelation. If Daenerys thought of Jon as a threat…

“Why would she be worried? I’m still a bastard. Lyanna and Rhaegar were never married. I have no claim to the throne and I have no wish to claim it. Why would I want to rule in the south when I didn’t even want to rule in the north?” Jon’s face had darkened, brow furrowed and a frown marred his face. “This isn’t even why we summoned you Lord R- Howland. Our brother, Bran is alive. Our forces North found him and your daughter. They are being escorted back to Winterfell as we speak.”

Finally, Howland broke his gaze, looking down at the ground. “And my son is not with them?”

Sansa’s gaze narrowed, “Why would your son be with them?”

Running a hand over his face, Howland sighed before answering, “He had the sight, he knew when your father died and he knew he would be going North with Bran. He and Meera went North with your brother while I held the Neck. I hadn’t heard anything about them since they had left.”

“You knew that our brother was alive?” Sansa asked, her tone accusatory.

“I knew there was a possibility. But I did not want to raise your hopes. There was just as much of a chance that he could be dead.”

Sansa took a deep breath, letting her eyes fall closed as she calmed herself.

_She was a bird, flying high over Winterfell, the wind soaring beneath her wings. The air was cold and growing colder as she soared higher and higher. Diving low, she held her wings to her body, only letting them out at the last second to glide over the ground. Beating her wings, she began to head upward, listening to the wind-_

“Sansa!” Several voices mix together, pulling her away from the vision. She had had dreams like this before, flying above Winterfell, soaring through the air. It was usually on stressful nights, she would take calming breaths while lying in bed, and then she would be soaring through the air. She never told anyone about it.

It’s not a conscious decision. It’s not like she makes the choice not to tell them about the dreams. But with everything else that’s goings on, talking about dreams, no matter how vivid or real they feel, isn’t a priority. And it’s not like they’re a problem. So, she dreams of being a bird, of living free and flying far. If she indulges herself in her dreams, it’s not a big deal. Now that she’s done it while awake and around people however, it’s a problem.

“What just happened?” Arya asked, she stood behind Margaery who was holding Sansa close.

“She warged,” Jon’s voice was soft but troubled.

“Warged?” Margaery turned her panicked gaze upon Jon.

“She went into the mind of a creature. Some of the wildlings are wargs,” he explained.

“Has this happened to her before?”

“I don’t know. Not while I was around,” He looked to Sansa. “Sansa, has this happened before?”

Sansa shook her head, then nodded. “In dreams. I’m a bird. But it’s always just been in dreams, until now.”

“Do you know what you were thinking about right before this?”

“I was picturing myself as a bird. It’s very calming.”

“Can you do it again?”

“No!” This time it was Margaery who answered. “No. She won’t be doing it again.”

“Margaery, it’s perfectly safe. Besides, it’s better that she does it now and figures out if she can control it rather than wait for it to happen somewhere where we can’t guarantee her safety,” Jon argued. When Margaery didn’t look convinced, he continued “Do you really think I would let anything happen to my sister?”

At that, Margaery softened, “No, of course not.”

Sansa broke in, “Do I get a say in this?”

“Of course,” they both answered her, before looking at the other.

“Jon?” Arya spoke up. “Have you warged into Ghost?”

Jon looked surprised, but nodded. “Sometimes when I sleep, I warg into Ghost. Why?”

“Because, sometimes, I have dreams. Dreams that I’m leading a pack of wolves. And it feels so real. Like I am the wolf. I just don’t know if it’s the same.”

“So, all the Starks are wargs then?” Margaery asked.

Silence settled over them as they considered the implication of all of them experiencing this.

“We should keep it secret,” Sansa spoke first.

“Why? It’s useful. If we can control it, we could use it in battle,” Arya argued.

“The wildlings use wargs in battle,” Jon pointed out.

“I’m not saying we don’t use it. Simply that we should limit the knowledge of who knows we can do this. What purpose does it serve to let others know all our strengths?” Sansa counseled.

“It can intimidate our enemies,” Arya said.

“We’re fighting White Walkers, they don’t get intimidated,” Jon reminded her.

“But do you think Lord Whitehill will try anything if he knows we can warg?” Arya asked.

“It may give him more of a reason. Just imagine it,” Margaery dropped her voice in a poor imitation of Whitehill. “Those Starks are unnatural, they survive through magic and can control animals.” Her voice returned to normal, “And what if they accuse you of warging into a person? Of taking away their will? Telling them is a fast way to get yourself killed.”

Silence once again fell as they considered Margaery’s words.

“I agree with Lady Margaery,” Howland spoke, breaking the silence.

Sansa jolted in her seat. Howland had been so silent since she had warged that she had forgotten he was there. She took a moment to look at him, really look at him. Howland Reed was not old, roughly the same age as her father. She remembered him visiting their family on occasion, when she was much younger. She looked at him and saw a man who had loved her father, a man who had loved her family, and a man who deeply loved his own.

She took another breath before speaking to him. “Lord Reed, While I am not happy that you kept the possibility of my brother Bran being alive a secret, I am appreciative that your children were with him and that your son sacrificed his life for my brother. In recognition of this sacrifice, I am awarding you with the land previously held by the Bolton’s, including the Dreadfort. I understand that this will considerably add to your lands. And with agreement from House Tyrell and Queen Daenerys, farmers will be sent to care for the lands in your stead. Keep this information a secret until it is announced, which will be upon the safe return of Bran and Meera.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Howland said, bowing his head in respect.

“Unless you have anything else, you are free to go. We will see you at the feast tonight,” Sansa dismissed him.

“Then I take my leave.” Howland rose, heading to the door and closing it behind him.

“Smart, granting the land to Lord Reed. But can we expect Whitehill to defer to him? What if he rallies a force?” Jon asked.

Sansa smiled, “If he raises a force against my appointment, that would be treason, he would be a traitor. And we are more aware than any of what happens to traitors.”

“But if he raises a force, you’d be sacrificing the lives of the people my family sends. At least, if he raises them after they get there.” Margaery pointed out.

“I’m sure that Howland would agree that, with your family and their people occupying the lands, and as most fighters will be sent to the front, your family would be entitled to bring with them some protection. Namely, some knights and soldiers to protect against wildlife and any ruffians or Gods forbid, traitors.”

“Sansa, you seem to have forgotten that we will have to negotiate with Daenerys. Especially if it involves the movement of troops. It won’t look good if we look like we’re conspiring with the Tyrells,” Jon reminded her.

“I can write to her. She’ll agree,” Arya said simply.

Sansa and Margaery shared a look, prompting Sansa to ask, “How can you be sure?”

“She trusts my judgement, trusts me. She’ll listen to me. I’ll write to her. Just, trust me on this,” Arya pleaded.

“Always. Write her soon, today preferably.” Sansa said.

Arya nodded but then spoke. “We do have one more problem.”

“Which is?”

“Bran has a claim to the throne.”

“Do you think he will try and claim it? Margaery asked her keenly. She hadn’t ever met Bran, but Sansa had told her stories of all the Stark siblings.

“The Bran we used to know would take it if he believed it was his duty. But I do not know what has happened to him while he was North,” Jon pointed out, turning to look at Sansa. “What will you do if he wants the throne?”

“Bran is my brother. Family is our first priority. We can’t afford a civil war and I don’t think I could bear to fight him,” She answered, forlorn. “I just want to do what is best for our people. If Bran believes he is what is best… Then we can discuss it”

“You make a good Queen, Sansa,” Jon assured her.

“One other thing,” Arya began.

“If I warg right now, I don’t have to deal with it right?” Sansa joked.

Arya stuck her tongue out at Sansa before continuing, “I just wanted to know if you wanted to wait for Bran to arrive before you are wed?”

Sansa looked at Margaery, trying to gauge an idea of what she wanted.

“Your brother should be there for your wedding. You’re allowing my family, yours should be there as well.”

Sansa leaned over and kissed Margaery soundly. Before she could get lost in the kiss, she pulled away and whispered a “Thank you” against Margaery’s lips.

“We’ll have several weeks to prepare. Your family will need time to gather people to send North and then time for them to actually make the journey. From our messenger in the North, Bran should only be a week away at most. Do we want to tell the lords that he is returning?” Jon focused on strategizing, not looking at either of them after their affectionate display.

“Arya, what do you think?” Sansa turned to her.

“Whitehill doesn’t like you as queen. Knowing that Bran is alive and could claim the throne could cause him to gain supporters. Turning us against each other would smart. For now, we should keep the circle of people who know Bran is alive and returning, small.”

Sansa nodded, “Any other problems that we’re aware of or should I wait a few minutes to give time for something else to happen?”

Jon smiled sympathetically at Sansa.

“Was it this hard for father?” Sansa sighed heavily.

“Possibly, but he ruled during a long summer and after a war. Though,” Jon began to smile. “he was raising us so I’d say harder.”

“Well we all know who was causing trouble.” They both looked at Arya, who looked affronted.

“I’m offended that you would imply that I was the problem child,” Arya said indignantly. She managed to hold the look for a moment before smiling widely at her siblings. “I don’t suppose you were ever a trouble maker, Tyrell?”

Before Margaery could reply, there was a knock on the door.

“There are your other issues you were waiting on, Sans,” Jon teased.

Sansa groaned loudly before calling out “Enter.”

The door opened to reveal Loras, which caused Arya to whoop in delight. “Loras! Tell us any stories you have about Margaery.”

Loras looked unperturbed by the request, “I’m supposed to tell you all that it’s time to get ready for the feast.”

“Come one, one story of Margaery getting into trouble and then we’ll go get ready,” Arya pleaded.

“Loras.” Margaery’s tone held a warning.

Loras smirked in response, moving to sit in the seat formerly occupied by Howland. “Has Margaery told you about how she set a goose on a man?”

“No! Tell me everything.” Arya encouraged him.

“So, some minor lord, one of our vassal houses, was visiting Highgarden. He was what 60 years your senior?” Loras asked.

“62.” Margaery supplied.

“Yes, well, anyway, this lord decided that he wanted to marry Margaery. Never mind the fact that she hadn’t even bled yet. Well lord Whats-his-name-”

“Lord Sloane,” Margaery once again supplied.

“Yes, him. He decided that he needed to woo Margaery. He bought her all these gifts, including a flock of geese.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. So, we now have a flock of geese roaming Highgarden, and they decide to nest in the bushes beneath Margaery’s window. And about two weeks into Sloane trying to court her, Margaery convinces him that she always dreamed of her husband serenading her before she slept. So, this guy spends days learning to sing and learning ‘The Maids That Bloom in Spring.’ Finally, the night comes where he’s ready to serenade her. He shows up and begins singing, but Margaery tells him that she can’t hear him, so he walks directly beneath her window. Lord Sloane steps on one of the geese, which immediately begins attacking him. He was chased by it all night. Eventually we sent some people out to go get him. He left without saying goodbye to Margaery and he hasn’t returned to Highgarden since.”

The Starks dissolved into heady laughter, though eventually Sansa gained enough control to ask, “Is that true?”

Margaery smiled innocently, “If Lord Sloane stepped on a goose outside while _I_ was getting ready for bed up in my room, then that is his own fault.”

Margaery’s answer sent the Starks into another bout of laughter.

Jon wiped at the tears escaping his eyes, “I don’t suppose a goose would take care of Lord Whitehill?”

“You aren’t suggesting we set a goose on Lord Whitehill?” Sansa pretended to be shocked.

“Of course, it would be a tragedy.” Jon nodded solemnly. “I hear that Northern geese are more viscous than southron geese.”

Arya was the first to break, giggling for a moment before giving in fully to laughter. They all joined in, which was how Brienne and Jaime found them, falling over in their chairs, crying from laughter, resolutely ignoring their responsibilities.

“I told you we shouldn’t have sent Loras,” Brienne told Jaime.

“I assumed he wanted to see his sister,” Jaime replied.

“You’re just scared you’re going to walk in on Margaery and Sansa,” she scolded him.

“They were in a hallway, it was by no means a private place. It’s not my fault they were kissing there.”

“It doesn’t matter, you don’t need to avoid them.”

“I know. But-”

“Jaime.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

Jaime shot her a look but quieted. Brienne knocked on the door, alerting the group to their presence.

Sansa composed herself first, “Yes?”

“You should really be getting ready for the feast Your Majesty,” Brienne urged.

Sansa nodded and stood up. “Of course. Thank you, Brienne, Jaime.”

The rest of the group rose as well, Jon throwing an arm over Sansa’s shoulder as she grabbed Margaery’s hand. Arya led the group out, walking backwards as she conversed with Loras about their siblings.

In that moment, surrounded by her loved ones, the weight of the crown didn’t feel as heavy. In that moment, she felt light. In that moment, she was happy.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Loras waited for his sister, who was saying farewell to Sansa. He laid out the dress she was planning to wear, and then began to take stock of the room. The room was large, not as big as either of their rooms in Highgarden or even in King’s Landing. However, the lack of ornaments or decorations made the room seem larger than it was. The was a desk of dark wood in the corner, a plain wooden divider to change behind, a small round table with matching chairs, and two large cushioned chairs in front of the fireplace, but other than that, the room was empty and plain.

 Margaery finally entered, letting the door fall closed with a heavy thud behind her. She smiled warmly at her brother, and began moving to change.

“I understand why you spend so much time in Sansa’s room. Your accommodations here are,” Loras hesitated, trying to find the right word. “Quaint.”

“I won’t be in theis room long, and as you mentioned I spend more than enough time with Sansa, so there is no need to complain about my lodgings,” Margaery said breezily, turning to have Loras unlace the back of her dress.

“Margaery, she hasn’t even noticed you don’t have any ladies in waiting or even a Septa here to help you. You could at least mention it to her. Or at least ask for some decorations for your room. Flowers, maybe, something with color,” he scolded her.

“When our family comes up for the wedding I’ll offer our cousins the chance to stay as my ladies in waiting again. I don’t fault Sansa for neglecting something as trivial as this.” She stepped behind the wooden divider and began to pull on her new dress. It was a warm golden color, with an intricate design of green vines which turned to flowers on her neckline. She stepped out again to allow Loras to button the back.

Loras sighed but acquiesced, fingers moving briskly. He had done this before, helped her dress, even when she had ladies in waiting and septa’s to help, he would help to, for she was his sister and when they had nothing else, they would at least have each other. “It’s this now, but what about when you’re married? Will Sansa remember your needs? Will she sacrifice your happiness for her kingdom? What are you willing to lose in this?”

She turned sharply at his question. “You gave up everything when you lost Renly, swore yourself to the Kingsguard, swore off love.” She took a step up to her brother. “You ask me what I’m willing to lose in this. I’m willing to lose everything. I will lose it all as long as I have her. And if she chooses her kingdom, her people over me? Well, that’s why I love her. Not because of her power or her beauty, but because of her heart. For her heart is good and fair, and to be loved by it, to be loved by her, it’s worth losing it all.”

He met her gaze steadily. “You may be willing to lose it all, but I’m not prepared to lose my family. Tonight, I’ll swear my Queensguard vows to Sansa as Queen in the north, revoking my place in the six kingdoms. I’ll be sworn in service to her, But, you must know that if it comes down to you or her, I will always choose my family.”

Nodding, Margaery leaned up and placed a kiss upon his forehead. Leaning back, she grasped his shoulders. “The Starks are wild forces, part wolf, part royal, with something strange in their blood. But we know the power of care, of building something. Flowers have many uses. Nightshade is beautiful, and provides many crops, but it can also be deadly. Remember our words Loras.”

Margaery stepped away from Loras, reaching to find the cloak that Sansa had given her. “Arya will be writing to Daenerys to allow our family not only to come up to the wedding, but send people to garrison the Dreadfort. The land is good for growth, but with the winter we will need hardy plants. I plan to ask Maester Tarly if he has any recommendations, but I will also write to grandmother to tell her. I suggest you write to father about who they think we should send.”

He shifted, letting his armor clink together. It was heavy, having adorned it earlier to spar with Jaime and being stopped by the messengers. He hadn’t changed out of it, though he wondered in the Sansa’s Queensguard would mean he would be given new armor. Margaery continued to plan, talking more to herself than to him, and he let his mind wander.

 _The Queensguard here would be different, would have to be different._ King’s Landing had been haunted with memories of Renly and filled with grief. Every moment was a reminder of what he had lost. The Kingsguard had been his chance to mourn his lost love, his lost life. He was the third son, no claim to Highgarden, his future wasn’t there. With Renly gone, he lost another future, the one he truly wanted. His sister had been content to marry Renly on paper, she would get power and he would have a reason to be around Loras. Loras knew what the loss of true love would do to Margaery, his dear sister. For he had loved Renly truly, and his loss had left his broken, but he had a purpose after losing Renly. He had his sister and his duty in the Kingsguard. If Sansa died, Margaery would have him, but she wouldn’t have a purpose. Margaery wasn’t stupid, no she was always hailed as the clever one. Undoubtedly, even without her feelings for Sansa, Margaery knew what she would lose if she lost Sansa.

 _Margaery is your priority, no matter the vows._ Loras told himself. If he was forced to choose, he would always choose his sister. But, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t do everything he could to protect Sansa, to spare his sister’s heart.

“Loras,” Margaery addressing him directly broke him out of his thoughts. “Don’t we have a cousin in the Citadel?”

“Leo,” he answered. “Though I don’t know if he is a true Maester yet, or if he is still studying.”

“It may do well to write to him. But enough planning, we should head to the feast,” Margaery said as she led him out the door.

“Throwing ourselves to the wolves,” he muttered.

Margaery turned and flashed him the smile that she always wore when going to deal with old men who thought they knew better than her. “It’s not the wolves we have to worry about here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always comment here or yell at me on tumblr. Though I am much better at responding on tumblr and you might even get a headcanon. Also, all the starks are wargs. All of them.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, they're fucking gay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned and wrote four different versions of this chapter, one of which including Jaime accidentally walking in while they fucked in the winterfell greenhouses and another which featured several deaths. Instead you get this. Hope it's gay enough.

**Chapter 5**

“And so, I raised up my sword and-” Margaery was listening intently to Tormund, seemingly enraptured by what he was saying. Arya studied her carefully, looking for cracks in Margaery’s veneer. She seemed genuinely interested in what Tormund was saying, Arya noted. She had left Sansa’s side early on, mingling with the guests, both northern lords and wildlings alike. Each person she spoke with was met with the same attentiveness, the same kindness. Every tale she heard, she met with one of her own; every person she spoke to became endeared with her.

While Margaery enraptured the guests, Sansa remained in her seat, also enraptured with Margaery. It was worrisome to Arya; just how enraptured Sansa was with Margaery. She wasn’t worried about Margaery intentionally hurting Sansa. No, Arya was worried about someone hurting Margaery to get to Sansa. But so far, the only person to even look at Margaery with minor disdain was Lord Whitehill, who was so deep into a glass of wine that even that lacked much vitriol.

“The smallfolk all adored Margaery in King’s Landing. You needn’t worry about her. She’ll charm the toughest of them,” Ser Jaime informed her.

“And will they be charmed enough to avoid using her?” Arya asked.

Jaime smiled wryly, “The Tyrell’s played the game well. You don’t need to worry about her.”

Tormund finished his story, which had drawn laughter from Margaery. Arya watched as Loras leaned down and spoke to his sister. He hadn’t left her side, following her as she moved around the room. Whatever he had said drew his sister’s attention to Sansa, who smiled widely at having Margaery’s attention turned to her.

Seeing her sister smile so freely was a blessing. Arya had truly missed the easy smiles that had been present in their childhood, and often wished for the days when all their smiles had been carefree. For this, making Sansa smile, wide and honest and carefree, Arya was grateful to Margaery.

Tormund noticed the loss of Margaery’s attention and upon seeing it directed toward Sansa he spoke again, his words drawing another laugh from Margaery and a wry smile from Loras.

“May I ask you something, Tormund?” Margaery asked after her laughter subsided. “Do you believe Sansa to be a better as Queen than Jon was as King?”  

“Aye, he answered.

“Why?”

Tormund looked away from Margaery and over to where Sansa sat, Jon and Arya on either side, with a space left empty for Margaery. He stared for a long moment, though the only one who seemed to notice was Arya, who simply raised an eyebrow, as Jon had drawn Sansa into conversation.

Eventually, he turned back to Margaery and began to speak. “I knew Jon when he was a crow. He’s a damn good swordsman and an even better leader on the field. But that boy was made for battle, a commander through and through. He’d be a fine king.”

“But?”

Tormund smiled at her, “He’s made for battle, but there’s more to winning a war than just fighting it, more to ruling than fighting, more to living then just surviving. Jon is concerned with fighting, Arya with secrets, but Sansa is concerned with the people. How they’ll eat and stay warm. She cares about all of them, the good and the bad and those in-between. She knows politics where he knows war. Starvation and cold will kill just as surely as a blade. Sansa Stark looks out for the North.”

“I’ll look out for her.” Margaery spoke seriously, as if swearing a vow.

Tormund smiled, “I have no doubt you will.”

Taking that as the end of the conversation, Margaery bid farewell to Tormund and began heading to Sansa.

Sansa greeted her with a smile, grasping her hand and lifting it to her lips.

“Did you miss me?” Margaery asked.

Jon snorted from the other side of Sansa but said nothing.

“Of course,” Sansa lips moved across Margaery’s hand. “What do you think of the Northerners now that you’ve walked among them?”

“They are an interesting bunch. I would love for my grandmother to meet Lady Mormont,” Margaery informed her.

“I’m not sure if that is the best idea I’ve heard, or the worst,” Sansa answered.

“Oh, they’d meet in the morning and Lyanna would have grandmother convinced that she should learn to fight by the dinner,” Margaery laughed.

“The Queen of Thorns is terrifying enough as she is, she doesn’t need a weapon,” Jaime chimed in.

“You are right enough Ser Jaime. No swords for grandmother,” Margaery conceded with a laugh. She turned to Sansa, “Are you going to address them, sweetling?”

Sansa sighed, “I suppose I must.”

Placing one last kiss upon Margaery’s hand, Sansa reluctantly released her grip and rose.

The movement caused a ripple of movement. From behind Sansa, Brienne moved a hand to Oathkeeper, waiting for trouble. The small smile Sansa had managed to pull from Jon had faded away as he and Arya scanned the faces assembled. Jaime and Loras focused on Sansa, and in a few moments, the hall quieted.

“I thank you all for attending this meal,” Sansa began. Margaery noted how tall Sansa stood, how graceful, how she met the eyes of each person present. Long enough to make them feel important, but without focusing on one single person for too long. “Many things have changed in such a short time. This meal is and opportunity, a celebration, and respite. Tonight, we take the time to remind ourselves of what is at stake. An opportunity to remind ourselves what we fight for, and who our true enemy is. The blood of noble houses is the same blood that runs in the veins of the free folk. The blood of the North binds us, and we can’t keep spilling Northern blood.”

Sansa paused, and Margaery watched as the audience remained quiet, captivated by their queen. “This meal is a celebration. A welcome home to my sister and to Maester Tarly. And a welcoming to our new additions to the North. Ser Jaime Lannister, who will fight alongside of us. Ser Loras Tyrell, and his sister, Lady Margaery.” Sansa turned, casting a warm smile to Margaery. Turning back to the crowd, Sansa continued, but not before Tormund caught Margaery’s eye and sent her a thumbs up. She shot him a smile before giving her attention back to Sansa.

“Tonight is a respite, a chance for rest. We have fought for freedom and we have fought each other, but tonight we remember those we have lost. Tomorrow we go on fighting a new enemy. Tomorrow, begins our war against a far more fearsome enemy. Winter has come, and with it, the fiercest foe any of us will face. How many of you remember the legendary White Walkers and the Long Night? How many of us discounted the tales as fables? Or even if true, considered them a foe long vanquished? Why was the Wall built and the Nights Watch founded? The Wall wasn’t built to keep the Free Folk out, and the Nights Watch wasn’t always a place to send criminals for a chance at redemption. Once, the Wall was our strongest defense, and the Night’s Watch a hallowed institution. Our first line, our front line against the Walkers. But the Wall was brought down by Petyr Baelish in a cruel attempt to seize power. With the Wall gone, the North, our home, is the front line.”

Sansa paused again, watching the crowd shift, “But wars are not won in a day, and the winter will be long. With the Bolton line ended the Dreadfort lies empty. Its’ crops, alongside Winterfell’s, have sustained our people through winter’s past. We cannot afford to allow it to lie empty. And yet our people, our men and women, will be on the on the front fighting. The Walkers don’t just threaten the North, and the southroners must do their part. Daenerys has already begun mining Dragonglass for our weapons, and the Tyrell’s have agreed to provide supplies. But the Dreadfort should remain controlled by the North, and so for services to the crown, I am gifting the care of the Dreadfort to Lord Howland Reed.”

Murmurs broke out the fate of the Dreadfort. Lord Whitehill glared murderously at Lord Reed. For his part, Howland nodded in acknowledgement to Sansa, and kept his gaze firmly fixed on her.

Once again Sansa spoke, pulling their attention back to her. “Enjoy your meal and steel yourselves. War is upon us.”

With that, Sansa seated herself, and the hall was again filled with chatter. But the chatter was quickly halted as attention was once again drawn to the front table. Instead of Sansa, Jaime and Loras rose from their chairs together, moving to stand in front of the high table.

“What is this?” Sansa asked them, quieting the hall as she spoke.

“We wish to formally swear ourselves to the service of you and yours, Your Majesty,” Jaime answered her.

Sansa and Jon shared a look, communicating silently. “Very well, there is Sept you may use. Jon will officiate as your Lord Commander.”

“Your Majesty,” Loras stepped in before either could rise from their seat. “We wish to swear to you and yours, and to the North. If we were to fail in our vows, we want the North to hold us accountable, not just the gods. Let us swear here, in front of all of them.”

Margaery’s brow furrowed. Yes, Loras had told her that he was going to swear to Sansa. But he hadn’t told her that he planned to do so with Jaime, or even that Jaime was going to swear. They couldn’t have talked about it during the feast as Loras had been by her side since they had arrived. Which meant that he had planned this with Jaime without telling her. Loras keeping secrets from her was… unsettling. First, he had conspired and helped Daenerys in King’s Landing and now, this.

Sansa’s hand on her wrist drew her attention. She kept her gaze trained on her brother, but laced their fingers together and proceeding to squeeze her hand in assurance. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Sansa nod and Jon rise from his spot. When he stood in front of them, they drew their swords. The crowd seemed to hang on a baited breath as Jon took Widow’s Wail from Jaime as he sank to one knee.

“Begin.” Jon’s rough voice rang through the silence.

“I, Jaime Lannister, hereby swear on my honor and my allegiance to protect the Queen and her family. I will do my duties until death, and through that time, keep all secrets of the Queen safe from spread. I will not speak unless spoken to, and I will defend the Queen's land or pay the price. I will wed no wife, father no children and hold no land. I will master the gate, pluck the bow, handle the blade and serve my realm: for now and forever. I swear it to those here, and by the Old Gods and the new.”

“Rise, Ser Jaime,” Jon said as he finished. He offered him Widow’s Wail, and Jaime, strangely enough, hesitated for half of a second before grasping the hilt and rising. Jon stared at Jaime for a moment searching for something within him. What he was looking for, or if he found it, only he knew, for he soon looked to Loras.

Once again, he grasped the sword offered to him as Loras sank onto a knee.

“Begin,” he repeated.

“I, Loras Tyrell, hereby swear on my honor and my allegiance to protect the Queen and her family. I will do my duties until death, and through that time, keep all secrets of the Queen safe from spread. I will not speak unless spoken to, and I will defend the Queen's land or pay the price. I will wed no wife, father no children and hold no land. I will master the gate, pluck the bow, handle the blade and serve my realm: for now and forever. I swear it to those here, and by the Old Gods and the new.”

Loras did not hesitate or waiver as he spoke, nor was there any trace of a lie in his voice. After he finished Jon offered the blade back to him. Loras grasped the hilt with none of Jaime’s hesitation. He met Jon’s gaze as he rose, but he wasn’t met with the same searching look that Jaime had.

“We’ll need to get you a new blade, normal steel doesn’t work on Walkers,” Jon remarked, already turning away.

Loras nodded in acknowledgment while sheathing his blade.

As soon as Jon was fully turned away and started making his way back to his seat, chatter broke out in the hall. But Margaery didn’t notice that, she remained focused on the spot where he brother had knelt, thinking of what he had promised.

 _I will always choose my family,_ he had sworn.

“Margaery?” Sansa whispered in her ear, pulling her out of her reverie. Hot breath and Sansa’s proximity drew her mind to other things, effectively putting Loras out of her mind.

She smiled softly at Sansa before speaking “Sorry sweetling, it’s been a long day.”

Sansa frowned, watching her for a moment before speaking, “If you’re tired maybe we should retire. Although, I did have something I wanted to show you, but it can wait until tomorrow.”

That piqued Margaery’s curiosity.

“You have a surprise for me?”

“Yes, but we should rest. It will still be there in the morning. Shall we go?”

“You don’t need to stay?”

Sansa studied the crowd for a moment before she answered, “No. I’ve said all I’ve needed to say, and they’ve had enough of my time today. Anything else can wait until tomorrow.” She smiled ruefully. “Hopefully, tomorrow.”

Sansa spoke to the others, seeing who would stay and who would leave with them. Jon and Brienne chose to stay; Jon claiming he had neglected the free folk since turning the crown over to Sansa, and Brienne to watch over the rest. Loras and Jaime elected to accompany Sansa and Margaery, claiming it was part of their duties. Arya agreed to leave with them, though she claimed she had “things to do” though when Jaime attempted to ask what exactly those things were, he was answered with a rather terrifying smile. With that all decided they took their leave.

Once they were out of the hall, Margaery linked her arm with Sansa, like she had done so long in the gardens of King’s Landing. That walk seemed like a lifetime ago, between two different people.

She waited until they had made their way back to the main castle before she asked, “So, will you show me this surprise?”

When Sansa seemed to hesitate, Margaery leaned up and whispered in her ear, “Please, Sweetling? For me?” While running a hand down her arm.

Sansa shivered and Margaery believed she had won. Pressing a kiss to her cheek, she watched Sansa’s eyes flutter closed.

Instead of conceding, Sansa cupped Margaery’s face and pulled her in for a deep, slow kiss. Sansa tasted of lemon and wine and Margaery was immediately consumed with want.

“Really?” Arya’s voice rang out, stopping either of them from losing themselves completely.

Pulling away, Sansa blushed heavily while turning to glare murderously at her sister. Arya matched her gaze, and thus began a war of the wills between the sisters.

Taking a deep breath, Margaery looked at their companions; Loras smirked at her, Arya remained stuck in her staring match with Sansa, and Jaime had closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and seemed to be muttering something along the lines of “They’re doing this on purpose at this point.”

Deciding that the staring contest between the two sisters would either never end or only end in blood, Margaery grabbed Sansa’s attention by breaking the silence, “Sansa, let’s just go to bed, preferably before we scar our siblings and poor Ser Jaime for life.”

Sansa sighed dramatically before nodding in acquiescence. She grasped Margaery’s hand and began to lead them away, biting out “Goodnight Arya” as they passed.

“I’m sure Margaery will make plenty sure you’ll have a good night, Sansa!” Arya called out.

The blush which had adorned Sansa’s cheeks had begun to fade, but at Arya’s comment, it deepened considerably.

“Goodnight Arya!” Sansa repeated fiercely, and quickened their pace away.

Without Arya in the front, Loras hurried ahead of them, checking that nothing was amiss in Sansa’s rooms. When they arrived, he held the door open for them, throwing another smirk at his sister as she passed into the room. She waived Loras away after they entered, though as the door was closing she caught the beginning of Jaime’s sentence to Loras, “I don’t know why they always do that in front of me…” and tried not to laugh.

With the door closed, silence reigned. The firelight gave the room a warm glow, and it would have been peaceful, if not for Sansa’s harried actions. She was attempting to pull her cloak off, but her hands shook too much for the effort to pay off. Letting out a frustrated breath, Sansa began to whisper to herself “stupid, stupid, stupid.”

At that point, Margaery chose to intervene. “Sweetling?” she asked, while placing a hand on Sansa’s shoulder.

When Sansa didn’t respond she continued. “Sansa look at me,” she said softly.

Slowly, Sansa turned around and Margaery took in her appearance. Her brow was deeply furrowed, eyes filled with unshed tears, and a deep frown marred her face. It broke Margaery’s heart to see her like that, and she automatically stepped closer to comfort her.

Bringing a hand around to the back of Sansa’s neck, Margaery began to play with the wisps of hair there, while using her other hand to rub along the furrow of her brow. She didn’t speak, but continued her actions to soothe Sansa. Under her ministrations, her brow unfurrowed and she moved her hands to wipe away any tears. Moving to cup her face, Margaery ran her thumb over Sansa’s lips until she closed her eyes, appearing calm.

Finally, Margaery spoke. “Tell me what’s wrong, my love.”

Eyes flying open, Sansa pulled away and faced the fire. She stared at it for several moments and when Margaery said her name, she ran a hand through her hair and let out a heavy breath. Without turning around, she began to speak.

“Arya is just so… so… frustrating!”

“Yes, well siblings tend to be like that.”

“She always knows just what to say to make me angry. Or embarrass me, or upset me. She always has! Gods know we were at each other’s throats enough as children.”

“Is it the fact that she can embarrass you that upsets you or what she was implying? Because Sansa, if you’re uncomfortable with anything, please tell me. I meant what I said, I’ll take you anyway I can get you and if you don’t want-”

“No!” Sansa whipped around, wide eyed, cutting Margaery off. She composed herself, and brought herself back to Margaery. “No, that’s not an issue. Of course, I want you. By the Gods, I want you so bad.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“The problem is that she shouldn’t be able to get me angry! I’m supposed to be the queen, I can’t get angry at her and lose my composure. I can’t fail these people. I can’t be a silly little girl anymore. I can’t-”

“-be everything Cersei made you think you were? Or be Cersei?”

“Yes!”

Finally, they were at the heart of the problem. How Sansa saw herself, and predictably, it was Cersei’s fault. For half a moment Margaery wished that Arya had made Cersei suffer a long time for all the damage she had done. The damage to Westeros and House Stark was terrible, far reaching, and unforgivable. But seeing Sansa still be shaken by her now was enough that she believed she could have killed Cersei herself.

“Sansa Stark, you are _nothing_ like Cersei Lannister,” Margaery said fiercely. “You are kind and good and meant to rule. You work tirelessly for your people, you took the crown because it was good for them and not just because you wanted it. You are nothing like her. And no, you aren’t the same girl who went to King’s Landing with her father. I don’t think you were even that girl by the time I met you. You are not some silly little girl and you aren’t a power-hungry bitch. You are a smart, sweet, beautiful _Queen_ , who leads her people through the good times and the bad. You are better than what she made you think you were. Do you understand me Sansa Stark?”

Sansa bit her lip and nodded.

“Good. And if you think those things about yourself again, I will be happy to remind you that they aren’t true-”

“-Thank you-”

“The fact that you still see yourself like that is frankly-”

Margaery kept speaking as Sansa approached her, only stopping when Sansa was close enough that she could feel her breath on her lips.

“Margaery?”

“Yes?” she answered, letting their breaths mix together, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between them.

As if reading her thoughts, Sansa didn’t speak but closed the short distance between them. Automatically, she tangled a hand through Sansa’s hair and grasped onto her dress to pull her closer.

Sansa’s hands settled on her waist, and she cursed the north for being so cold that they needed so many layers. Layers that kept Sansa’s hands from her skin. She pulled away and began pulling off the cloak Sansa had given her.

Sansa panted as she watched Margaery fold and carefully place the cloak on one of the chairs.

“It’s such a nice gift sweetling, I’d hate to have it ruined,” she explained.

Walking over to Sansa, she began to undress her.

First the cloak fell away, and Margaery pressed a brief kiss to Sansa lips before pulling away.

Next, the black gloves were pulled off, and Margaery kissed each palm with such tenderness that Sansa could scarcely believe it. Not because Margaery couldn't be tender and loving, but life was cruel and hard and Sansa had suffered so much that even a little tenderness was enough to almost break her.

Then, it was the circle and chain necklace, which fell on the floor with a heavy clunk that rang out in the heavy silence.

Then came the Sansa’s dress, a heavy and dark thing that was composed of many layers to keep out the cold. It was so different from what she had worn previously, the light dresses that had been so common in King’s Landing. It seemed to take ages to get all of it off, but Margaery was impatient with need. The need to see Sansa, to feel her, taste her, love her.

Finally, all the layers were peeled away; small clothes, dress, and cloak on the floor, and Sansa Stark was bare before her.

Margaery had seen Sansa many ways; angry, scared, happy, relieved. But oh so rarely had she seen Sansa be open. Even in her lightest moments, Sansa had walls up, guarding her. Perhaps it was subconscious, developed from her want to be viewed as the perfect lady morphed into a need to protect herself from the terrors that she faced.

In this moment though, as she stood bare, there was no fear or hesitation, no walls or secrets. Here, she was stripped of the expectations of her reign. No more was the fearless ruler of the North, but nor was this the fearful girl she had met in King’s Landing. No, before her stood Sansa Stark in all her glory; blazing blue eyes, bright hair, and porcelain skin. In the light of the fire she looked like a goddess; some wild and royal thing that Margaery could never understand, much less possess.

“Do you know how gorgeous you are, Sansa Stark?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know how much I love you?”

She kissed her, deep and long, only pulling away to breathe. She planted hot, wet kisses up to Sansa’s ear, where she breathed “Do you know, Sansa? What I would do for you, my Queen?”

Groaning out, Sansa responded, “Show me.”

There are many things Sansa would think of when she thought of that night. The way Margaery kissed her, or said her name, or looked at her. How the path Margaery’s lips trailed down her body _burned._ How she was built up by Margaery’s words and touches, and the way it felt to cum, on her fingers, on her tongue. How completely wrecked she was by the end of it. Or the way Margaery guided her, showing her what she liked. The way Margaery had looked, spread out on her bed, ready and aching for her. The way Margaery had shouted her name would ring through her mind for ages, she was sure.

But the one thing that she would remember most, took place after they had both come. It was how softly Margaery had looked at her, how tenderly. The feeling of Margaery wrapped around her; safe, warm, loved. How rough and sleepy Margaery’s voice was, but still sure, still serious, as she whispered, “I love you, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa knew that they were going to face an ancient foe, that they could be ripped away from each other at any moment, that if she faltered the North would fall. But in that moment, she was loved by Margaery Tyrell and she was invincible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My bros do you think I actually know what I'm doing? Nah, but you can yell at me over on mstoker.tumblr.com cuz I'm now writing this and a hogwarts au.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the Jasmine Thompson cover of Cherry Wine by Hozier, sleep deprivation, procrastination, and a lot of Jenn Bostic.

**Chapter 6**

Looking into the eyes of Bran Stark, Jaime Lannister decided that Jon was the least terrifying of the Starks.

Arya was too wild. Her grins were too wide, too sharp. In her lingered chaos and death; something Jaime recognized too well. Every step was purposeful, a piece of an intricate dance that only she knew, timed to a song only she heard. When she fought, Jaime could hear it cresting in a crashing crescendo. Though he could hear it, he could not understand it, his own personal melody a discordant harmony to hers.

Robb’s bearing had been similar; though he had the sounds of his sworn men constantly pressing down upon him, when battle was upon him his own music burst from him. The air around him was constantly heavy, filled with death and sorrow and rage. But where Robb’s presence was muted by the crown he bore, mitigating his choices, Arya’s presence crackled. Death leaked out of her, sorrow came in waves, and rage rippled; and the girl’s confidence never wavered, never belied any possibility of regret.

Bran was just as dangerous as his sister. His power was rooted in the earth and in magics so old that Jaime would never understand it. The boy that had returned from beyond the wall had the same courage as the boy who had climbed Winterfell’s walls. Only, now his courage was tempered by his knowledge; the boy was no longer filled with a child’s hubris, but a seasoned sage’s wisdom. His eyes were filled with laughter, and his smiles were always a touch conspiratorial.

Upon his return, he had requested Jaime be put in his guard, leaving him uneasy, waiting for the boy to say something that would give him away. He had seen the young man speak of things that he would have no knowledge of; singing a long forgotten soldiers hymn with one of the guards, describing the way the flowers grew outside of Loras Tyrell’s window and the words Loras had used to describe them to Renly, the scene of Lady’s death, and of Cersei’s. Bran held Jaime in agony, torturing him by not revealing his crimes, never speaking of his experiences in front of others. When Bran retired to his rooms, he would call Jaime in and describe a memory; holding Myrcella, reading a book with Tyrion, the first time he killed. But always, he danced around their shared history.

Sansa was possibly the most dangerous of the Starks. Though she bore no blade nor any mystical knowledge, she had survived King’s Landing, and better yet, she had thrived. His Queen, for Jaime did consider her his ruler, was far more dangerous with her dreams than any of her siblings were with their weapons. Sansa would drag the North through winter, bring them victory in their war against the Walkers, and still inspire love and loyalty, all in the name of a dream.

The Sansa that he had first met dreamt of love and a happy ending; she wanted a fairytale and peace, with no consideration to the suffering and power that legends bore. His Queen’s suffering had burned her bones until her blood boiled with power. Power that oozed out of her words; commands were sharp and left no room for questions, compliments could make anyone defeat ten White Walkers, and condemnations could bring a grown man to tears. Sansa the girl had dreamt of kingdoms built of glass and smoke, Sansa the Queen had taken burnt hearth and broken glass and breathed life into it until it was a force to be reckoned with. Her siblings were death and magic, but Sansa was life and love and dreams.

Jon was simpler. Though death followed him like Arya, he was tired of it; something Jaime knew well. Jon was guided by the Warrior, just as much as Jaime was, even if he followed the Old Gods. Arya was the chaotic side of death, the side that breathed just a hair too much, the wildness of nature and all its’ brutality. Jon was the orderly side of death; the soldier’s march, the rhythm of the drums, the clang and clamour of blades meeting. Jon bore Robb’s weight even though he had rejected his crown. The man was Ned Stark’s son through and through. He bore burdens that were not his own and believed in the same moral code.

The code he lived by had killed his father and brother, and Jaime was sure he had survived purely by his skill with a blade. He and Loras had sparred with Jon only once. He had watched the man twirl his blade in the courtyard, and had offered to give him a chance to really fight. Jon hadn’t smiled, that was something reserved for his siblings, but he had relaxed in a way Jaime was all too familiar with.

Jon in battle was Ser Arthur Dayne reborn. He was the Warrior that Jaime had prayed to before battle. Though he and Loras were the best blades in the seven kingdoms, they were just that, blades. They were tools, means to an end, used by a warrior or a headsman. Jon was War and Death in one person. There was no subtlety in Jon, none of the cunning of his siblings, nor the wildness. Jon was the end.

Jon was dangerous, one of the most dangerous people in the Westeros. But Jaime could understand Jon. Every aspect of Jaime that others had lauded was magnified and manifested in Jon tenfold. Jaime could understand Jon to some degree, more so than he would ever understand the other Starks, and so he was the least dangerous of them.

Staring into Bran’s eyes reminded Jaime that even if Jon was the least dangerous, he was still dangerous.

“I’ll repeat my question,” Bran said. “Do you regret it?”

Jaime shifted, well aware of the positions of the Starks around him. Bran sat in his wheeled chair next to Sansa who held Margaery’s hand carefully as she watched the proceedings. Arya prowled the room, seeming to disappear when passing through a shadow, but always watching, always moving. Jon stood behind Margaery’s seat, one hand settle on Longclaw, another settled on the back of Margaery’s chair, eyes dark and searching.

Bran had requested their presence in the dark hours before the sun rose, an hour so late that even Arya was weary enough to sleep. The Starks had responded to their summons quickly, their faces twisted in worry at the possibility of another tragedy or complication.

For his part, Jaime had been sleeping fitfully on his one night off. He heard the guards coming to his room long before they reached it, and had followed them easily. He gave up his sword to the guard, and he didn’t bother dressing himself. Instead, he was presented to the Starks in a worn pair of trousers and blue shirt with a silver wolf on the shoulder which turned into flowers the farther down it went. The same shirt he had worn when Cersei had died; a sign of his reluctance to bear his own house any longer.

Did he regret it?

Loving Cersei, protecting his family, being a tool to further the agenda of his family who cared for nothing but themselves and their wealth.

He had never regretted the blade he held, never regretted the death of another that he brought about.

But he regretted the soldiers faces when they marched away from home, uncertain about returning, going to war in his family’s quest for power. He regretted the madness that had manifested in his sister. Regretted not stopping her when she raged and plotted. Every moment that had sent a shiver up his spine, had jarred his memory of Aerys, every time he had compared his own family to the Mad King and dismissed it because they were Lannisters and they were his family and his blood.

“There are nights that I dream of that day,” Jaime began his quiet confession, soft words ringing through the empty hall. “Of your confusion and fear. Some nights are just the rehashing of the memory, and every time you fall by my hand, and your confusion and fear becomes my own. Some nights I am the monster the kingdoms make me out be, and push my own children out of that window, and hear the cries of Tommen or Myrcella. And there are nights when I am as honourable as my family wished me to be, as honourable as they claimed I was. On those nights, the dream and memory mix. I can feel the texture of your shirt under my fingers, and the smell of the dilapidated towers and the sounds of Winterfell below. But instead of pushing, I pull you inside, I end things with Cersei, and I confess to my crimes. I wake up when I die and wish that had been the reality that I had chosen, wish I had been that man. On those days, I wear a deeper blue, I make my armour shine just a bit brighter, and I scrub my skin a bit harder, wishing I could wash away my name and my family as easily as I wash away dirt. I think Pack not Pride, Wolf not Lion, and on particularly bad days I pretend my last name is Hill.”

He paused when he met Jon’s murderous glare. He cast a glance to Sansa, meeting her imperious gaze, as she nodded for him to continue.

“Yes, I do regret it. And if I die for it, or rot in a cell; it is no less than I deserve.”

He waited, wondering if it would be Jon or Arya who cast his final blow, or if they would call in the guards and have him dragged out. Jon’s grip on Margaery’s chair was dangerously tight, but he made no movement towards him.

Jaime’s gaze drifted to Margaery, she regarded him with a frown and hard eyes. It was a look he had grown used to seeing on her face, though it hadn’t previously been directed at him.

Margaery had taken to her life in Winterfell with a renewed vigor once she had recovered. Mornings meant breakfast with bakers and guards who had risen long before her. Days were spent becoming acquainted with the projects and people that were dedicated to rebuilding and fortifying Winterfell. Dinner was spent with the lords and ladies of the North, making friends and telling stories and ignoring Whitehill’s glares. Evenings were spent with the Starks, pouring of records of past winters: grain supplies, population reports, histories. Anything that had a modicum of information for surviving winters was read by Margaery, tiny pieces of information pulled together to form plans that were written in detailed letters that took Margaery well into the night. The look Margaery currently leveled him with was the same look when Margaery was reminded of dealing with Lord Whitehill.   

“You deal in death, Jaime Lannister,” Sansa’s voice drew his attention. “You strove to be a hero and made yourself into a villain. You have been beaten and broken and had everything you managed to build be taken from you. In the North, your house is synonymous with evil. When I look at you, I can see the cruelty of Joffrey and Cersei, I remember every member of my family that yours took from me, and hearing the pain you caused my brother makes me want to wipe you and your accomplishments from the memory of Westeros.”

Arya placed a hand on his shoulder and he sank to his knees, eyes fluttering closed, ready to die.

“When I was in King’s Landing, people would say my name with such vitriol. _Stark_ was whispered in the same way they would say _traitor_ ,” Sansa told him as she rose to her feet. “When the lords here say _Lannister_ , they say it the same way they say _Kingslayer._ To them, you are a villain, and they wait for you to live up to your reputation.”

Sansa stood in front of him, he could feel her presence, but still he kept his eyes closed and head bent.

“As much as I see Cersei and Joffrey in your actions, I can also see Tyrion. Your brother taught me as many lessons as Cersei did. And while Cersei’s lessons have helped me greatly, Tyrion taught me a much greater lesson; he showed me mercy. He treated me kindly, not in spite of my name or because or it, but because it was the right thing to do. It was a gift that he gave me, that I now pass onto you. Your life is your own. Take a few days for yourself and decide what life you will live now. You can leave here, if you choose, or you may stay. You could return to service, or you could live as a normal soldier. If you wish to give up your name, it can be arranged.”

Sansa placed a hand on his head, not moving him, simply resting it there. “You are released from my service, Ser Jaime. Your life is yours.”

With that, she removed her hand and walked away. He heard the soft steps of Margaery as she followed after Sansa, and then Jon’s heavy steps and the squeak of Bran’s wheels. The hand that Arya had placed on his shoulder still gripped him, and he wondered for a moment if he had lost some form of protection from Sansa.

“You deserve death. And for as much as Sansa claims that this is mercy, I think it’s a punishment. Killing you would be easy, something you want too much. You can’t fail anyone else if you’re dead, yeah?”

He breathed heavily, a sob catching in his throat. He had failed them hadn’t he? His family, his kingdom, and now his Queen.

“I could kill you,” Arya continued. “I should, for all the people that have died because of you, for all my family has suffered. But what Sansa is doing, what she’s trying to build here, it’s too important for me to cross her decision.”

Arya let go of his shoulder, and Jaime let himself fall forward, catching himself with his good hand.. He kneeled there for a while, his tears hitting the stone beneath him. Eventually, he pushed himself back up; first only to his knees, and then standing fully. Raising his head upwards, he took a breath, steeling himself.

Outside of the door, two guards waited for him. Each had a hand on their sword, and watched him exit with furrowed brows. The taller of the two spoke to him as the door swung closed behind him. “We’re supposed to do what you want, fetch you things or take you where you want to go, Lannister.”

The vitriol with which the guard said his name wouldn’t have normally made him flinch, but at the moment he struggled and failed to suppress a shudder.

He considered a moment before he spoke, “Fetch a cloak from my rooms, take it to Brienne of Tarth and take her to the tower where Bran Stark fell.”

“Will you be meeting her there, Ser?” The shorter guard asked. “Would you like a guide?”

“No, I remember the way well enough,” he said as he disappeared down the dark corridor.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Sansa’s breathed hitched as Margaery fingers trailed over her hips.  The girl had been spending the quiet hours before dawn attempting to distract her from the spectacle they had just witnessed.  

It had started when Margaery had caught up to her in the hall, grabbing her hand and stopping both her movements and her thoughts. Margaery had pulled her close without a thought, holding her close and carefully. Sansa had wanted to run at first, wanted to change and fly away from all of it. But Margaery was soft and warm and smelled like sleep and a little bit like Sansa and she couldn’t help but sink into her touch.

There had been no words exchanged between the two of them, though Sansa had come dangerously close to whimpering when Margaery had pulled away. But Margaery had simply kept their hands linked and led her back to her chambers.

From there, Margery hadn’t stopped touching.

“I don’t suppose you could be persuaded into shirking any responsibilities today?” Margaery whispered against her neck. The softness of her breath against her neck sent a shiver up Sansa’s spine. She was tempted, so very tempted to get lost in Margaery’s touch and spend the day sequestered away together.

Pressing a kiss to Margaery’s lips, Sansa began to shift Margaery’s hands away from her waist. Once their hands were firmly clasped, Sansa pulled way, smiling at the whine Margaery released at the loss of contact.

“You’re lucky today, love. I already planned for us to have our own day together,” She pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.  “And I never showed you the surprise I had for you.”

Margaery’s wide grin was dazzling, making Sansa forget her train of thought for a moment.

“Does this surprise involve us and your bed?” Margaery asked, walking backwards as she led to the bed.

Sansa shook her head, biting her lip in a failing attempt to keep herself from grinning to wide.

Margaery pouted, stopping her movements to kiss Sansa. Giving in briefly, she began to get lost in the feeling of her lips. The pout turned into a soft smile, which melted into something else as Margaery deepened the kiss. Hands released Sansa’s so they could tangle in her hair, soft locks moving smoothly through Margaery’s fingers.  

Sansa pulled away to breathe, and giggled when Margaery’s pout returned. She pressed a quick kiss against her lips before pulling away fully.

“Can you control yourself long enough to get dressed?” She asked as she went to her wardrobe.

Margaery sighed dramatically, dropping herself onto the bed before spreading out and rolling herself into the fur. All that she received for her show was a raised eyebrow and a small smile.

“Will you at least give me a hint as to what my surprise is?” Margaery pleaded, hoping her future wife was feeling generous. But Sansa shook her head in response, and Margaery once again sighed heavily.

Several pieces of clothing hit her body, turning her sigh into an _oomph_ of surprise. Raising her head, she appraised the clothing that had been thrown at her. The cut was southern, with a plunging neckline and various pieces of skin on show. The fabric was midnight blue silk, a sharp contrast to the heavy furs she had grown accustomed to. It was a color she had come to realise Sansa liked her in. Wrapped in Stark colors, she claimed Margaery to some degree, providing some degree of protection among the northerners who still doubted her loyalties.

As Sansa helped her into the dress, she considered the implications of Sansa’s actions. Distrust for Jaime was already high among the northerners, and while Jaime was in control of his life, he no longer had the protections of being part of the Queensguard. Jaime was now just a citizen of Winterfell, and while Sansa was Queen she still had to appease the northern lords. Casting out the Kingslayer would be a good way to win their favor. It was a good option to have open, and with the announcement of the Dreadfort going to Howland Reed, they would need to ensure they retained the favor of Whitehill and his followers.

_And yet…_

Margaery didn’t want Jaime to be banished. She _was_ intimately aware of the damage his family had caused, aware of the price of his actions. But she couldn’t help but think of the broken man who had accompanied her North. The man who had watched two of his sons die in front of her. The man who had so hated his family, who was so scared of what they could do that he would forgo their name and wear the colors of not only another house, but another kingdom.

She had enjoyed the man’s company, had come to think of him as some sort of friend. Though he often looked exasperated at finding her and Sansa in increasingly intimate positions, he had expressed that he was glad they found each other. A kind word was always offered to her when he noticed that she felt ostracized, and a fond memory of summer in the south often helped cure her of any homesickness.

_Perhaps he will choose to stay. The threat remains whether he leaves or goes, and even crippled he was one of the best we have._

The soft pressure of lips on the back of her shoulder banished all thoughts of Jaime Lannister, and Margaery turned around to face the Queen with a smirk.

“I thought you wanted me clothed?” She teased, wrapping her in her arms.

Sansa kissed her softly, before reaching around Margaery and pulling a grey cloak around her. Her eyes lingered on the direwolf brooch that bound the cloak, and a soft smile made its’ way onto her face. But she linked their arms together, like their walk in the gardens of King’s Landing so long ago, and led Margaery out of the chambers.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The walk was a long, and for awhile it seemed as though they were wandering purely on Sansa’s whim. Though it was long, it was still entertaining as Sansa had a story for every place they passed. Family stories flowed easily from her lips, and even if a small amount of sadness lingered in her eyes, she didn’t struggle to talk about her parents or Robb or Rickon. Even Theon Greyjoy made a few appearances in Sansa’s stories, and at Margaery’s prompting Sansa revealed the man’s fate.

“He’s running the northern naval fleet. Yara bent the knee when Daenerys took out their uncle Euron. Theon was left to choose between the family he was raised with and the family of his blood. He chose to protect the place he grew up in.” Sansa informed her.

“You consider him family?” Margaery asked. “Even after he destroyed Winterfell?”

Sansa threw a sharp glance at her, “He has more than paid for his crimes.”

“Apologies, I just don’t know much about the man aside from what I had heard about the sack of Winterfell.” She inclined her head in an mixed effort of appeasement and curiosity.

Sansa sighed, shaking her head. “No, no. It’s alright. I do understand. It’s just,” She paused. “When Baelish sold me to the Boltons, Theon was destroyed, completely destroyed. But he was the one familiar thing about this place. The one person who still showed me kindness. He’s very much still a brother to me. To hear the accusation in your tone, it’s like if someone spoke against Jon or Arya or Bran. I won’t allow it, not if they don’t deserve it. And he really doesn’t.”

It was skirting on the edge of the territory they talked about in public. Sansa had been slowly revealing her past abuses to Margaery. Taking time when they were curled up in the safety of their bed to tell her. Some nights, Sansa would just have Margaery hold her. Other nights, they traded stories, Margaery would tell one of being kept by the Faith Militant and Sansa would reveal part of her own captivity.

They never spoke of this in public, and even in the dark abandoned halls of Winterfell, it felt like they were trespassing.

“Does Theon Greyjoy have anything to do with my surprise?” Margaery steered them away from their territory, moving them forward without any clue of where they were going.

Sansa shook her head again, but smiled this time. “No he didn’t. Though he does keep sending advice on how I should woo you in his letters.”

“Oh, and what does he advise you to do?” Margaery inquired, curious to the man’s nature.

“He’s rather insistent that I do that thing that you did yesterday with your tongue. I’m afraid that if I tell him that you’ve done it he’ll tell us to do something else, or worse, ask questions.” Sansa shuddered at the thought but from the large smile on her face Margaery knew she wasn’t worried. “He _was_ rather impressed with what I actually have planned for your surprise.”

“He gets to know what my surprise is and I don’t. Your Majesty I’m offended,” Margaery fake cried.

Sansa laughed at the over exaggerated expression Margaery bore, happy that even in her fake outrage Margaery still refused to move away from her.

Rolling her eyes, Sansa led them faster through the halls of Winterfell until they came to a stop in front of a heavy oak door.

Heaving the oak door open revealed a second door, this one made of thin glass. Attempting to push the door open rattled the glass, and Sansa let out another exasperated sigh before turning to the darkened hallway to call out “Arya!”

The girl in question appeared out of the darkness on the other side of the hall, opposite of where Sansa was calling to her.  

“From the stories Jaime tells I had expected you two to be naked by now,” she said, drawing Sansa’s attention to her.

“Where did you come from?” Margaery squawked at her.

Arya’s _Are You Serious_ look chastised her enough, but still the girl spoke, “You didn’t really think the Queen was allowed to roam the castle without a guard, did you?”

“Arya provides some sense of privacy,” Sansa cleared her throat, raising her eyebrows in a clear _Understand_ gesture. “Something that she will ensure we have for the rest of the day.”

The bow Arya responded with was almost as impressive as the eye roll that accompanied it. But before her sister could respond, the glass door was unlocked and slid open, a wave of heat engulfing the trio and revealing Margaery’s surprise.

_Flowers._

Rows upon rows of flowers and bushes and crops. Flowers that she had heard about in stories and seen in books. Others that she had grown up around, and a few that she had seen in plenty. Margaery’s jaw dropped and her eyes went wide, the air being pushed out of her lungs in shock almost audible.

The heat was warm enough to make her sweat underneath the heavy cloak Sansa had placed upon her. Suddenly, Margaery understood why she was in a silk dress, something that would allow her to breathe and enjoy the heat of the room. Unclasping the cloak, Margaery moved it to a bench near the door before taking off down the aisle, intent on studying every flower she could.

With the heat and the earthy scents mixing with the floral, Margaery was reminded of High Garden, and for a moment, was overwhelmed with a feeling of loss. Tears sprang to her eyes as Sansa approached her, and she attempted to blink them away before Sansa saw them, lest she saw them and thought Margaery ungrateful.

Sansa’s eyes were soft, and her smile slightly bittersweet. Instead of offering any words, she wrapped her arms around Margaery’s waist and placed soft kisses across her face. When Sansa reached her lips she began whispering against them, the words making Margaery’s lips tingle, “You look like I did when I first returned to Winterfell. Happy, but devastated. You’ve lost so much to gain what you have and it doesn’t always seem worth it. I don’t know if it is to you. So all I can do is try to give you a little bit of home, and hope that you know that you have me. You have me, my kingdom, my throne, my love. By the Gods, you have my love. I love you so dearly, so truly, that I can’t stop saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The tears that Margaery couldn’t help but shed mixed with Sansa’s kisses and a watery sob. Wiping at her eyes, Margaery smiled. “I love you too, Sweetling.”

Then she kissed her, and the ache in her chest went away. The loss shrunk down smaller and smaller, overwhelmed by the joy that began to fill her. She kissed her, and tasted lemon and salt and _home._

“You are my home, Sweetling.” She kissed her. “And I love you.” She kissed her again. “And you have me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been awhile, my friends. Hopefully now that I have a working computer updates will come more frequently. Also, before my other computer when kaput, I had written out the majority of the chapter. It was completely different than what you got. As always, come yell at me on tumblr. @mstoker

**Author's Note:**

> Yo so this happened. I'm bad at updating so come yell at me about this over on tumblr. https://mstoker.tumblr.com/


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